My grandma died last month. She left me an old folded map like it was treasure. At first? Junk. Then I saw them—tiny hand-drawn stars scattered across it. One on my old playground. One on the street corner where my bike flipped. One where I got jumped for my phone in sophomore year. Every place I'd ever gotten badly hurt. And there's one more star—one I've never been to.

I could check one of the places myself. Find out what grandma knew. I grabbed my car keys.

The playground was exactly how I remembered it. The old swing set, the same oak tree. Everything frozen. But there, carved into the tree trunk: a date. The day I broke my arm. My heart started racing.

I sat on the swing I used to use. And I remembered: the day I broke my arm, grandma picked me up. She asked so many questions. 'Where exactly did you fall? What do you remember?' I thought she was just being grandma. What if she was—

I went home and pulled out my own journal from elementary school. Every injury I'd written down—the dates matched the map perfectly. But there were blank spaces. Future dates. And the writing on those blank pages wasn't mine. It was grandma's handwriting, continuing the story.