It’s hard to sleep. You look up at the night sky and even the stars seem new. The positions strange, their color no longer bright white but gold. When you were young, your grandmother used to tell you stories of doors appearing on nights like this. Bright blue with a silver knob. You’ve never wanted to walk through, but you’ve always wondered what’s on the other side.

In the morning, the sea is as orange as everyone said. Brighter than fruit. More beautiful than a sunset. You should be gathering seaweed and preparing it to dry. But instead, you sit on the warm sand and pull out the book you packed.