Dear Freddie, wrote Marja. The empty paper was lying in front of her on the desk, white and inconspicuous, as if every grain of dust dancing through the air was of greater importance. Nothing but these two words were visible on it. Words anyone could have written. Marja smiled. Sentences would be added for which this would no longer apply.

Dear Freddie,

I'm sorry to say this, but I have to go. Away. I don't know when I'll be back, but if you want, I promise I'll come back sometime. And then I'm sure I can tell you more stories than Grandma ever could, and then I can become a writer, just as you suggested.
I travel to the Land of the Singing Lights. I can get you something. A souvenir, as the term goes. I don't think we can write each other, even if I'd like to.
Tell my parents not to worry. Someone is with me, he will protect me. And when I hear the lights singing, I remember every verse and sing it to you, all right?
Don't be mad at me. Don't worry about it. Tell my parents that, too.

With love,

Yours, Marja.

She rolled the paper in as carefully as if its contents could otherwise break. Now all she had to do was take it to the fishing hut without meeting Freddie. How easy it was. Marja lifted the paper several times, it didn't weigh a gram. This could not be said about the message it contained.

She had decided to go with the beggar, although she could only shake her head over and over again about her own decision. Why would she do that? Why was it so important to her to know what had happened to that strange girl? Why? If she even left Freddie, it had to be really important to her, but she didn't know why.

"And? ready?" the beggar asked and tried to take a look into the bags in which Marja had stowed some supplies (three bottles of mineral water and two floppy rolls). He didn't seem penniless. At least he had a boat, a rather old but still working boat. The once golden letters at his side had now faded from the salt of the sea and were already partly flaking off, which is why one had tried to stick them on again with waterproof plasters. Gloria, it said.

"Just to make that clear," the beggar said and slapped with the palm of his hand a little pridefully at his property, "I didn't come up with the name. I don't know what it would've been called if I'd done it."

Marja hesitated briefly. "Maaren?" she asked carefully.

The beggar smiled sadly. "No. No way," he made it clear and set foot on the shaky vehicle. Boats could no longer intimidate Marja. She'd been on Freddie's too many trips for that. She wondered if it had a name.

It wasn't long before the Gloria set sail. Marja felt a little like on an ocean steamer or a cruise ship, despite seeing the beggar in front of her as he fought with the sails. Highly satisfied, she leaned against the wet wall of the green-painted boat. Finally. Finally she could forget Freddie and her mother, she even forgot Kirka for a short moment. There was only her and the sea and the boat that swayed on it when she closed her eyes.

She smelled the salty, fishy sea air, felt the gentle sway of the waves, which would certainly have made her mother immediately seasick, and heard the voices of the sea whispering incessantly, as they had already done on the crossing to the mainland.

And there it was again, that tingling. This anticipation, this excitement, stronger than ever. The two travelers on their way to the land of singing lights.