She climbed down the ladder, having loaded the last few odds and ends into the oddly shaped metal box she’d spent many months assembling.

Ilsa stood by the lake’s edge, waiting impatiently for her. They held hands, watched the sunset and skipped small stones across the surface of the lake.

“Where are you going?”

“Up there.”

“Why?”

“The deep blue night sky is my home, little one.”

This entry is part of my journal, published January 5, 2016, in Berlin.