Grandma left me one thing: a folded old map. At first it looked like junk. Then I saw the stars — tiny ones, drawn by hand. One marked the playground where I broke my arm at six. One marked the corner where my bike flipped. Every place I'd ever been hurt had a star. But there was one I'd never been: far out at sea, alone in the blue. What happened to me out there that I didn't remember?

I had to know. I took the map to the harbor and showed it to old Captain Reyes, who'd known Grandma for years. He squinted at the sea star and went pale. 'I'll take you,' he said. 'But you should ask your mother first.' I didn't. We left at dawn.

The boat reached the exact spot at noon. The water was flat and still, almost too calm. Reyes cut the engine. 'Your grandmother lost something here,' he said. He handed me a pair of old diving goggles and pointed down. 'Look for yourself.'

I pulled the goggles on and went under. A few feet down, something glinted on a shallow rock shelf — a small metal locket, green with age. I grabbed it and kicked back up, gasping. Reyes hauled me in. 'She always wondered if it was still there,' he whispered.

I opened the locket on the boat. Inside was a tiny photo of my mom, young and smiling, holding a baby — me — wrapped in a blanket. On the back, in Grandma's writing: 'Where we almost lost you, and didn't.' I finally understood the star. I cried the whole way back to shore.