Kyra took a deep breath and put on what she hoped was a welcoming smile before she rang the doorbell. Relax, she told herself when the chime rang out, unnaturally loud in the morning’s stillness. You’re just saying hello. Still, she felt uneasy, shifting her weight from one foot to the other while waiting for someone to answer. She’d only caught a glimpse of her new neighbor since the woman moved in almost a month ago and as far as Kyra could tell she didn’t go out much or have any visitors. One of the neighborhood children, Max, who lived across the street had already branded the newcomer a ‘weird witch.’ A label that made Kyra smile, but also slightly anxious. A few years from now, would the neighborhood children be calling her a witch? Several moments passed and Kyra wondered if she’d gone out. Her silver Carolla was still in the driveway, but maybe she’d gone for a walk. Or maybe she was inside and just didn’t want to answer the door. Kyra suddenly felt foolish, standing there, in her mother’s vintage Laura Ashley dress holding a basket of blueberry muffins. Maybe her new neighbor didn’t want to be bothered. Maybe…

Abruptly, the door swung open, and Kyra found herself face to face with a tall, extremely slender woman, who looked to be a decade older than her, with milk white skin, revealing the faint tracery of veins underneath, and long silver-blonde hair, so thin and brittle it looked like it might snap if you handled it too roughly. She reminded Kyra of a willow tree, all long limbs and flowing tresses. Realizing she was staring, Kyra forced herself to speak. “Hi there! I know you just moved in, and I wanted to welcome you to the neighborhood! My name’s Kyra,” she added, thrusting the basket of muffins towards her.

The woman took Kyra’s gift, regarding her with wide blue eyes so dark they appeared almost violet in the morning light. “Would you like to come in?” she said, her voice trembling slightly, and Kyra wondered if her neighbor’s waif-like appearance meant that she’d been unwell. 

“I don’t want to interrupt if you’re busy,” Kyra said, even though she was desperate for company. She didn’t go back to work until Monday and the weekend stretched out before her like an endless chasm.

The woman waved away her protest with a slender white hand. “Not at all. I’m in need of a break. Besides, you’re the first person to say hello since I got here. And my name’s Morgan by the way,” she said, her pale, almost bluish tinted lips curving into a smile.

Her tone was light, but Kyra detected a note of hurt, and she wondered if the other woman had already sensed the neighborhood’s distrust of newcomers. The residents of Kilworth were generally private and conservative, and although Kyra had lived there all her life, she wouldn’t describe any of her neighbors as particularly friendly. But maybe that was all about to change, she thought as she followed the silver-haired Morgan inside.

Her host led her into a room that exuded an almost unbearable lightness, as if gravity had been suspended within those four walls painted celestial blue. On the ceiling were tiny gold stars that shimmered when the light hit them. Everywhere Kyra looked, she noticed something unique and beautiful. The windowsill was overflowing with potted plants and crystals of various shapes and sizes, and on the far wall was an old stone fireplace that Morgan had filled with baskets of sweet-smelling herbs that made Kyra’s nose twitch. And on either side of the hearth were two, snow white wing chairs that seemed to beckon her to sit down, and despite the morning sun streaming through the windows, the mantelpiece displayed dozens of votive candles whose flickering flames dazzled her eyes.

“Oh my gosh, this is amazing!” Kyra exclaimed, taking in her surroundings. “I’ve never seen a room like this before. It’s so…. like something in a storybook.”

Morgan lifted her shoulders, the bones delicate and birdlike. “Our surroundings are so important, don’t you think? I mean, how can we be our true, authentic selves unless we surround ourselves with the things that feed our soul?”

Kyra thought of her own front room, mostly unchanged since her mother’s death, stuffed with the oversized ‘shabby chic’ furniture and cottage décor her mother favored in the 90s. Instead of stars and crystals, Kyra’s walls were covered with family photos and the mantle was overflowing with her dad’s old craft projects. Still, it never occurred to her to change any of it. It was her home, and as outdated as it probably was to other eyes, she loved it. Did it feed her soul? Yes, it probably did because she couldn’t imagine living anywhere else. “I agree,” she said, sinking into one of the fluffy wing chairs. “This feels like heaven.”

Morgan gave her a wide smile, revealing pointed and slightly grey teeth. “Please, make yourself comfortable. Would you like some tea? I have a lovely Moroccan Mint I think you’d enjoy.”

“Tea would be lovely,” she said, certain that Morgan’s tea would be as extraordinary as everything else about her. A feeling of warmth spread through Kyra’s body as she waited for Morgan to make her drink. No one had shown an interest in her life for so long. Sometimes, she felt almost invisible. Now that she worked mostly from home, she didn’t have much occasion to talk to other people her age. She’d tried online dating but found the experience mortifying. Besides, most of the men she met didn’t really want to talk. But the way Morgan tilted her head to one side, her violet eyes warm and inviting, Kyra felt truly seen. 

“Here you are,” Morgan said, setting down a steaming blue porcelain teacup painted with miniature constellation patterns. “Now tell me all about yourself.” 

“There’s not much to tell really,” Kyra said, even though the opposite was true. She was bursting with all the things she wanted to share, little things really, but it frightened her to think no one would ever hear them. Still, she didn’t want to scare Morgan off. “My parents bought the house next door right after they got married and then a year later, I was born, so I’ve lived here all my life. After my parents passed, I thought of making a move, but I guess I couldn’t think of anywhere else I’d rather be. Too many good memories. I’m making myself sound hopelessly dull,” she added, laughing self-consciously. 

“Not at all,” Morgan said, leaning her slight frame ever so slightly towards her. “What matters is how we live our lives, not where we live them.”

Feeling herself come alive under Morgan’s thoughtful gaze, Kyra sat up straighter in her chair and pushed her shoulders back like a flower unfurling its petals in the sun. “We had a good life, my family. I mean, we weren’t rich. We didn’t go on fancy vacations to Europe or anything, but we loved the beach. We spent almost every weekend of the summer there. It’s only a few miles from here. Memory Beach it’s called.”

“Memory Beach,” Morgan murmured, a tender flush lighting her pale features. “It’s been a long time since I’ve felt sand between my toes. Tell me about your beach, Kyra. Make me feel like I was there,” she added with a tiny laugh.

Kyra took a sip of her tea, thinking how nice it was to be sitting across from Morgan in this beautiful room. This was the kind of feeling she hoped for when she went on those disastrous dates, a feeling of connection. “Are you sure? You’ve probably been many more exciting places than Memory Beach.”

A look of impatience flashed across the other woman’ s features, but perhaps that was only Kyra’s imagination. She was so anxious in social situations. It’s the reason she had such a hard time making friends. “Tell me, Kyra. Tell me about your family trips to the beach.” Morgan’s voice was low and melodious, like a forgotten lullaby, and Kyra felt her eyes close. Her chair was soft as a cloud, and she could hear the soothing tinkle of the stone fountain behind her. A ray of sunlight crossed her vision, and bright spots of color appeared behind her closed lids. Surrounded by warmth and comfort, those long-ago summer days came back to her in a rush and she felt as if she were floating. “It was usually just the three of us. Sometimes, I brought a friend, but most of the time it was me, and my mom and dad. Every Saturday Mom would get up early to get the food ready. I’d wake up to the smell of my parents’ coffee and when I went downstairs, Mom would be making sandwiches; turkey and mayo for her and dad, peanut butter and banana for me. Next, she’d slice an entire watermelon because she knew it was my favorite, and for dessert, she’d pack her special Monster cookies. Chocolate chips, peanut butter, and M&Ms. My dad loved those cookies. She made them for him right up until the day he died.” Kyra hesitated, her summer reverie overshadowed by the memory of her mother as she was towards the end: tiny and frail in the hospital bed that seemed to be slowly swallowing her up.

“And then what did the three of you do?” 

Morgan’s voice, gentle yet probing, brought her back to happier times. “Dad would pack the cooler of food, my floaties—before I learned to swim—our giant fluffy beach towels with mermaids printed on them, and a bag of what Mom called her beach books. She loved murder mysteries. Not the scary bloody kind but cozy ones. You know the stories with Hercule Poirot and Miss Marple? And then there was my collection of pails and shovels for building sandcastles, and three folding chairs for us to sit on. 

On the drive to the beach, we played all my favorite CDs: Backstreet Boys, NSYNC, Britney Spears, and Christina Aguilera. My dad knew the words to every song and made me and my mom laugh by singing at full volume. He had a terrible singing voice,” she added, the memory so vivid she could almost hear him trill: Hit me baby, one more time! God, how her father loved to make them laugh!

Morgan murmured something Kyra couldn’t quite hear, but sensed the other woman wanted her to continue. “Once we got to the beach, Mom gave each of us a tumbler of lemonade. It was the coldest, sweetest, tartest drink you ever tasted. I tried to get her to teach me how to make it but somehow it never turned out the same. My mom had this way of making the most ordinary thing a little bit special. She wasn’t famous for anything in particular, but when you were with her you realized everything she did held a kind of magic. I don’t know, maybe everyone feels that way about their mom, but in my case it was real. I felt her gift then and I still feel it now.” Her voice caught on the last word, and she opened her eyes. To her surprise the room wasn’t sun filled at all, but drab and grey. Even Morgan’s eyes, which had looked so extraordinary a moment before, now appeared a watery shade of blue. “Anyway, I shouldn’t keep boring you with my childhood stories. Maybe we should talk about you? What made you decide to move to Kilworth of all places?

“Oh no, you mustn’t stop now!’ Morgan protested. “You’ve only just got to the beach. We haven’t even got wet yet!” 

Taken aback by the unexpected urgency in Morgan’s tone, Kyra lost her train of thought. “I’m not sure where I…”

“You just arrived at the beach and your mom gave you a drink of lemonade,” Morgan said, her eyes fixed on Kyra’s face. 

“Yes, we always had our lemonade and then I immediately changed into my bathing suit. I couldn’t wait to get in the water. My dad would swim with me while Mom sat in her chair underneath a giant pink umbrella, reading her book.” Uneasy under the intensity of Morgan’s gaze, she closed her eyes again, trying to recall the feeling of open water and endless blue sky. At first, she couldn’t quite grasp hold of the memory. It kept slipping through her fingers like powdered sugar, but slowly it all came back to her. The way the soles of her feet sunk into the wet sand, the cool blue water lapping at her ankles, and her dad’s large, reassuring presence beside her. They would walk hand in hand, far from shore, the water remaining shallow for several kilometers before gradually getting deeper. She remembered the feeling of her dad’s long calloused fingers tightening around hers when a rogue wave came their way. And when she’d occasionally look back over her shoulder, she’d see her mom, her hand above her eyes shielding them from the sun, watching her. 

“You were a very loved child.” 

Morgan’s voice startled her. For a moment she’d forgotten where she was. “Yes, I was.”

“And after you went swimming, what did you do?”

“We built a sandcastle. The biggest, tallest sandcastle you ever saw. A master builder, Dad knew how to arrange the piles of sand, so they didn’t collapse. Our castles were so special, other people on the beach would stop and admire our work. It was crazy, really, how good my dad was at building things. As I got older it would become a competition between us, who could build the tallest sandcastle. Mom would be the judge. Always fair-minded, she took turns choosing the winner, but my dad’s were always the best. He had the cleverest ideas. Once he built the turrets out of shiny, pink seashells. They looked so beautiful I took them home. I still have them in a keepsake box under my bed.”

“He sounds like a special man, your dad.”

Kyra nodded, the back of her eyes prickling. How tired she was! When she rang Morgan’s doorbell she’d been filled with an almost frantic nervous energy, but now her limbs felt heavy and sore, and her skin was dry and tight like it had become too small for her. “How long have I been here?” 

Morgan gave a small laugh, like the tinkling of a bell. “Not long at all. I hope I’m not keeping you. Do you have anywhere you need to be?”

Kyra shook her head. She had nowhere to go and there was no one waiting for her at home. Still, perhaps she should…

“Do finish telling me about your day at the beach. It’s a shame to leave such a lovely memory unfinished don’t you think?”

Kyra felt a tinge of confusion. No one had ever been so interested in what she had to say. She assumed it was because her life was simple, maybe even a little dull to some people, but Morgan seemed to hang on her every word. “What did you do after building sandcastles?” Morgan prompted.

Kyra let her eyes close again. It was too much effort to keep them open. She really was so very tired. She wished she had some of her mother’s…. tea? No, that wasn’t right. The beach. Morgan wanted to know about the beach. The room was quiet, too quiet. The fountain had fallen silent, and the only sound was her breath coming in and out of her body.  Suddenly ill at ease, the back of her neck began to ache, and she wondered if she should make an excuse and leave. She didn’t want to be rude but the thought of being home alone, safely ensconced in her parents’ living room, surrounded by her familiar, beloved things no longer seemed unpleasant. 

“Do go on, Kyra,” Morgan said, the honied voice hardening slightly. Kyra placed her hand on her chest, overcome by a wave of homesickness. Silly girl, you only live next door.  Just finish the story and you can go home. Once more, she forced herself to concentrate until the sun-drenched days of her childhood came rushing back, filling her body with hope and happiness. She told Megan everything: the feel of her mother’s arms around her shoulders, toweling off her shivering body; the warm air on her skin as she lay on the sand; the sweetness of her mom’s homemade strawberry jam; the gentle murmur of her parents’ voices lulling her to sleep on the drive home; the breeze from the open window caressing her face and neck. And finally, the crisp clean scent of her dad’s Verbena aftershave after he scooped her up and carried her inside, and the words he whispered in her ear.

“What did he say?” The sharpness of Morgan’s tone sliced through the buttery softness of Kyra’s long ago summer day.

“He said, I love you, high as the sky and deep as the ocean.” 

And then it was over. She had no more words. Her mouth felt stale and dry, but she couldn’t summon the energy to ask Morgan for a glass of water. She rose unsteadily to her feet, but Morgan made no move to help her. Instead, she strode to the front door and flung it wide. “Thank you so much for stopping by but I really need to get on.” Kyra nodded weakly, every step an effort. When she finally reached the door, she stopped and took one last look at her host. How wrong she’d been to think Morgan was older. She now appeared unmistakably younger, her skin smooth and luminous, her heart shaped face framed by silver blonde hair that fell in cascading waves down her back. Her eyes were indeed violet, with tiny flecks of gold at their centers. Kyra remained at the door, paralyzed, struggling to understand what she’d missed.

“Goodbye then,” Morgan said, and this time there could be no mistaking the impatience in the other woman’s expression. 

“Bye, thank you for…” the door closed so swiftly, she felt a puff of air on her face. Tears sprang to her eyes, and she stood on the doorstep for several moments, gathering strength for the walk home.

When she opened the front door to the house where she’d lived all her life, she was struck by the feeling of desertion, as if she’d been gone for months instead of a couple of hours. A musty smell hung in the air even though she’d baked blueberry muffins in the kitchen that very morning. She walked through the familiar rooms, bewildered by an overwhelming sense of loss. She turned around in a slow circle, taking in the overstuffed chairs; the coffee table her mother had bought and stained a beautiful walnut brown; the chenille throw on the back of the sofa and the pictures on the walls. The house was unchanged and yet somehow all wrong. Exhausted, she climbed the stairs to her bedroom, feeling like her thirty-seven years had doubled in the space of an afternoon. 

When she reached the top of the stairs, she stopped in front of her parents’ bedroom. Loneliness descended on her like a stone, crushing the breath from her body. She tried to summon the image of her father’s smile and the feeling of her mother’s arms around her shoulders pulling her close, but the memories wouldn’t form. She flung open the door, longing for the lingering smell of her mother’s perfume, but there was nothing. Where are you? she whispered. Desperate now, she ran down the hall to her own room, reached under the bed, and pulled out the smooth leather keepsake box her parents had given her on her sixteenth birthday. Lifting the lid with slow and careful fingers, she reached inside and retrieved a handful of shiny pink shells. Why had she kept these? She wondered, caressing the shells’ delicate ridges with her fingertips. The image of a sandcastle under a blue sky flickered across her mind before rising up and out of her like a ghost. She emptied the contents of the box on her bed, her hands scrabbling through the objects, searching for the stories to bring them to life, but they remained hard and cold in her hand. Spent, she lay down on her bed, and a vast emptiness came over her—as high as the sky and as deep as the ocean.