Kyla Garcia: ... words: OBJECTS IN MIRROR ARE CLOSER THAN THEY APPEAR.

There were almost tears in her eyes, which Marisol hadn't seen since the funeral last winter. Victor, looking out of the opposite window, had no idea.

Brothers are treasures -- that's what Nana always told Marisol whenever she got mad at hers -- though some days you have to hunt a little harder to see the gold.

Marisol had to hunt a lot when it came to Victor.

"If Nana were a ghost, she wouldn't stay in the beach house," she pointed out. "She'd be off having more adventures! Diving with sea monsters! Having a picnic on top of Mount Everest! Flying to the moon!"

"Ghosts can't fly to the moon."

"How do you know?"

"Because -- " Victor caught himself, remembering like he always did that he was too important to argue with his little sister about ridiculous things. "Never mind. Do we really have to pack up all of Nana's stuff? It's going to take forever."

"Only the personal items," said their father.

"But...," her brother faltered, "That's everything."

Mom's almost-tears turned into a laugh -- though it was sad still. "You're right, but the realtor told us the house will be easier to sell if someone else can see themselves living in it."

The marsh outside the window had changed into ocean. Blue, blue, blue, and a glitter of sun. It looked larger than Marisol remembered. Nana's house, on the other hand, seemed smaller. There was no FOR SALE sign yet, but that didn't stop Marisol's teeth from tightening. She didn't want to imagine a name besides Beruna on the mailbox, couldn't think of some strangers nailing a HOME SWEET HOME sign over the screen-porch door.

"Looks like we're the first to arrive!" Their father announced as he pulled their car into the driveway. "You have the keys, right, amor?"

"I did," Mom said, frowning in confusion as she dug through her purse. "I thought I did."

"Marisol?"

Both parents turned in their seats, not to blame her for the missing keys but to ask for help. Marisol was good at finding things: Keys, socks gobbled by the washing machine, even once a friend's escaped guinea pig.

It wasn't that she looked harder than other people. In fact, she barely had to search at all. It was almost as though lost stuff had a way of finding her. . . .

Marisol closed her eyes and felt for the tug that often prickled her fingertips. Sometimes the sensation was so strong it seemed as if her hand was pulled, though she'd never admitted this to anyone. She knew how it would sound. This time, the force made Marisol reach for her mother's purse. "They're in the side pocket, with the zipper."

"So they are! Thank you, reina."

The porch looked the same as it did last year -- lined with conch shells and shark's teeth, wind chimes singing in the corner. Sunlight flashed through their strung sea glass, speckling the wood with blues and greens. This pattern had always made Marisol think of a fairyland, which had often led to Nana telling a story about the time she stumbled across Icelandic elf folk inside a cave on a beach much stranger than Folly, with black sands and icy tides.

Victor never believed the tale, but it wasn't much more outlandish than any of the other things their grandmother did. To Nana, life had been one big adventure. There was photographic evidence all over the beach house, which Marisol studied as soon as she followed her parents inside. The oldest pictures -- black and white -- dated from Nana's days as a nurse during World War II. Her smile was young and brave, matching her friends' who wore the same khaki uniforms.

Grandpapa was there too, saluting alongside Nana's brother, who'd been lost in the war.

As the hallways wound and stretched, so did the years. Nana's library held the adventure she'd shared with Grandpapa: riding camels through the Sahara, dog-sledding in Alaska, canoeing on the Amazon.

The photos often had maps framed next to them -- yellowed with age, filled with Nana's travel notes. Sometimes she marked spots with an elaborate curling double C. Other times, she recorded the sights: Pink dolphins.