Morning, sunbeams seeping through the windowpane like frost from winters frozen ground. The breeze bathes Willa Sandusky with the scent of lilacs that are growing lavishly; a plum dusk sky lingers in the west. Combing her snow-white hair, she takes the well-worn path down the hillside toward the sea. Again, at dusk, Willa washed the dried sand from her feet, climbed in bed beneath old quilts and closed her eyes. She knew the time had come, her soul left its earthly body and floated over silver sands and emerald seas; one-hundred year old Willa knew that she was going home.