Sammie Cox pressed her nose to her bedroom window and watched the world blink awake. Southport was full of secrets before dawn—the hush of wind in the live oaks, the briny perfume of the Cape Fear River drifting in, the distant, lonely flash of Old Baldy across the water.

She pulled on her boots and slipped out the farmhouse door, careful not to wake her mother. Barefoot kids weren’t supposed to roam the beach so early, but Sammie considered it beachcombing, not breaking rules. Besides, she knew all the path’s roots by heart, even in the dark—the gnarled ones that tried to snag her toes, the sandy places with crab holes, and the wild rosemary on the path’s edge.

The beach was different at sunrise, the sky striped with tangerine clouds and the water glassy and still. Sammie crouched by the shoreline, squinting at shells and tossing pebbles at shy fiddler crabs. That’s when she saw it: a piece of glass glowing blue in the sand. Perfectly round, with something swirling inside like trapped moonlight.

She picked it up and felt a tiny spark leap through her fingers. For a moment, time stopped. The cry of gulls faded, and all she could hear was the distant toll of the lighthouse bell, impossibly clear.

Sammie blinked. She was alone again, but the air felt heavier, like right before a thunderstorm. She tucked the glass into her pocket and hurried home, not noticing the odd trail of star-shaped footprints that followed her up the dune.