The low chime of the grandfather clock in the hall reminds me that I’m not asleep. And again an hour later. If I listen, I can hear the shush and pull of the ocean. The moon sea-rises here, casting a glamoured road across the water. On nights like these, when I can’t sleep, I creep to the balcony window. And I imagine I am stolen by water fae. Thieved out the window and down the hill to the beach, and given rights to walk the moon road. To skip on fairy feet along the glittering until I reach where the mer-people hold their counsel. I long for the thieving. Keen for it. I wish with every piece of my 8 year old heart. Because I know, I know, that there is so little magic to be had. So little grace and wonder. Less so as 8 becomes older. And the deep belief of childhood leaks away. So I hope and hope and hope that the magic steals me before it is completely gone.