The bus engine rumbled away. Annabeth stood with her worn suitcase and looked up at a small yellow house by the sea.
She tried to unpack. Every shadow made her look up. Every creaking floorboard made her jump.
She set her chipped teacup on the windowsill. The wind blew — clatter — and sent it tumbling into the garden.
Beneath her bed she found an old wooden box. Inside — smooth sea glass. Blue, green, white. She laid them all on the table.
She arranged the pieces on the table by color. The whole surface shimmered in the afternoon light.
Something tapped at her window. She opened it. A seagull dropped a perfect white shell onto the sill.
She picked up the shell and turned it over in her hands. The house was very, very quiet.
She pressed her hand against the cool glass and watched the waves roll in. For one quiet moment, she thought: maybe this is exactly where she is supposed to be.