Today, Jade Harley is eleven years old. That in itself isn't of any particular importance, though—she doesn't feel any different, after all, than she did yesterday when she was still ten. When she peers at her own reflection in the mirror, she fails to see a single difference between her and the girl that she was a day before. All ten of her fingers are still there on her hands, and all ten of her toes are where they belong, too. Her tower has not magically adjusted to accommodate the event, and Becquerel behaves as he would on any other day. She goes through her usual routine as she would any other morning with a single exception: she passes by the calendar on her bedroom wall and lingers beside it for a few moments longer than usual and traces her finger along the red circle drawn around today's date.
"And that's when you'll be back?" she had insisted two months ago when her grandfather stood here, too, a red marker in his hands and a ship waiting for him at the harbor. Of course he only laughed, low and loud, and ruffled her hair as he answered, "Isn't it always?" Very clearly she remembers standing with her toes hanging off the edge of the dock, waving even after the grand vessel had become little else than a speck on the border of the sky and the sea, bidding him goodbye.
She knows how these things go; she has for years. Grandpa will leave with the oversized boat tied by the island's edge on some fantastic adventure to the mainland, and the day before he will say I'll be back soon as he marks a square on her calendar. Until then she will count every single day for weeks or months (and months and months) and then, on the very same date enclosed in a red circle, he will be back. Rain or shine or wild bear (he put up quite the fight but hadn't nearly the same skill in wrestling, he said one day as he showed off his newly acquired battle scars), he keeps his word.
An hour after she finishes lunch, she sits at the edge of the dock, placing her sandals beside her so that she can kick at the very surface of the ocean with the tips of her toes. Sooner or later, something will move on the horizon and it will be Grandpa standing at the helm of his pristine ship, and she will welcome him home with hugs and kisses, and Becquerel will bark and jump and lick faces, and they will both listen to stories of incredible feats and the grandness of the world around them and the brave things old Harley has done in his time away from home. This is how these things go, how they have always gone.
Two hours after that, time that she has spent counting butterflies and singing childish nonsense songs to the waves, Becquerel comes to curl up and rest beside her. For a little while he stays where he has sun to bask in and a hand to scratch behind his ears, but even though Jade insists on making noise so that a song can keep her company, she cannot keep a pitch, and so he flattens his ears against his head and leaves her so that he can dig up bushes and bark at birds, whatever it is that dogs do.
Not very long thereafter, clouds start to creep in on her from behind. It isn't until it starts to rain that she realizes that they were ever there. The weather has never stopped her grandfather, though, and it will not stop her, either; she hikes back to the tower and comes back with an umbrella.
Time passes. As it does, she brings back a bag of snacks and munches idly on them instead of having a proper dinner. In the distance, the sun shades the sky with a gradient of gold, and all Jade can tell herself is that the day isn't over yet. It is still her birthday; there is still time for birthday presents. He promised to come back today, and it isn't yet tomorrow. This is how these things go, how they have always gone, everything she has ever known—he'll leave her alone and she will endure, count down months and weeks and days, and he will return exactly when he promised. Why, she thinks as she bites her lip and pinches the bridge of her nose, would it be any different? She tries to force back tears that fall with the sun (and in its trip underneath the horizon it steals away the daylight, steals away today and the promises it had), but there is a gap between her umbrellas and she can't tell the difference between the rain and her own tears.
(When she thinks about it, she can't find a difference between the girl who sat on the dock last October even though the boat she was there for was long gone, and the one sitting there now.)
The next morning she wakes up there on the dock, and it is still dark and it is still raining, and the harbor is still empty. She is still eleven years old.
Everything feels different.
One last time she looks out to the ocean, hoping to find something she does not expect. There is little else than storm clouds and raindrops, though, and so she takes her umbrella and her sandals and her empty bag, and she leaves the harbor. She does not return, and she is not the only one.