The Hour Between Midnight and Morning

At 2:17 in the morning, seventeen-year-old Amaya Reed woke up because someone was knocking on her window.

Three slow taps.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

She opened her eyes.

For a few seconds, she didn't move.

The room was completely dark except for the thin silver line of moonlight slipping through the curtains. Her alarm clock glowed on the nightstand, the numbers bright and red against the darkness.

2:17 A.M.

Amaya pulled the blanket closer to her chin.

Tap.

She froze.

Another knock.

Her first thought was that it was a tree branch.

Except there were no trees close enough to touch her second-floor bedroom window.

She sat up.

The house was silent.

Her parents were asleep downstairs. Her little brother, Micah, was in the bedroom across the hallway. Somewhere outside, a car passed on the distant road, its headlights briefly painting the ceiling.

Amaya stared at the window.

Nothing.

She waited.

Nothing happened.

"Okay," she whispered to herself. "I'm imagining things."

She lay back down.

She closed her eyes.

And immediately, her brain began racing.

Tomorrow was Monday.

She had a history presentation.

She hadn't finished her slides.

She had promised her best friend, Lena, that she'd call her.

She had also promised herself she would finally tell Lena what had been bothering her for the past three weeks.

And then there was the letter.

Amaya opened her eyes again.

The letter was sitting on her desk.

She had received it that afternoon.

A white envelope with her name printed neatly across the front.

Inside was an acceptance letter from a summer arts program she'd applied to months ago.

She had been accepted.

It should have been the happiest news she'd received all year.

Instead, she'd stared at the letter for nearly twenty minutes before putting it back in the envelope.

Because accepting meant leaving home for six weeks.

Six weeks without Lena.

Six weeks without her family.

Six weeks of being surrounded by people who were better artists, more confident, and more experienced than she was.

Amaya had always wanted to go.

Now that she actually had the chance, she was terrified.

She turned onto her side.

"Why can't I just sleep?"

The clock changed.

2:18.

She sighed.

Maybe she needed water.

She climbed out of bed, slipped her feet into slippers, and opened her bedroom door.

The hallway was dark.

She walked toward the stairs.

Halfway there, she heard a sound.

A quiet creak.

Amaya stopped.

It came from downstairs.

Someone was awake.

She held her breath.

Another creak.

Then a faint metallic sound.

Clink.

Amaya considered going back to her room.

Instead, she slowly walked down the stairs.

The kitchen light was on.

She peeked around the corner.

Her father was sitting at the kitchen table.

He was wearing an old sweatshirt and holding a mug of tea.

He looked just as surprised to see her.

"Amaya?"

"Hi."

"What are you doing awake?"

"I could ask you the same thing."

Her father smiled.

"Fair enough."

Amaya walked into the kitchen.

"Couldn't sleep?"

"No."

"Me neither."

Her father nodded toward the chair across from him.

She sat down.

For a while, neither of them spoke.

The refrigerator hummed.

The clock above the stove ticked quietly.

Outside, the wind moved through the neighborhood.

Finally, her father said, "Want some tea?"

"Sure."

He stood and poured another cup.

Amaya wrapped both hands around the warm mug.

"Why are you awake?"

Her father sat back down.

"I was thinking."

"About what?"

He smiled.

"Too many things."

Amaya laughed softly.

"That's not very helpful."

"No, it isn't."

They sat in silence again.

Then her father noticed the envelope sticking out of Amaya's sweatshirt pocket.

"Is that the letter?"

Amaya looked down.

She had forgotten she brought it with her.

"Yeah."

"The art program?"

She nodded.

"You haven't told me what you decided."

"I haven't decided."

Her father raised an eyebrow.

"You applied."

"I know."

"You got accepted."

"I know."

"And you're still thinking about whether you want to go?"

Amaya stared into her tea.

"What if I'm not good enough?"

Her father didn't answer immediately.

Instead, he leaned back in his chair.

"Do you remember when I started my first job?"

"At the newspaper?"

"Yeah."

"You hated it."

"I did."

Amaya smiled.

"You complained about it constantly."

"I was convinced everyone there was smarter than me."

"You were twenty-three."

"I was twenty-three and very dramatic."

Amaya laughed.

Her father smiled.

"But here's the thing," he continued. "I almost quit during my first week."

"Really?"

"Really."

"Why didn't you?"

"I was scared."

"That's why you stayed?"

"No. That's why I almost left."

Amaya looked at him.

"So what changed?"

He shrugged.

"I realized that being scared didn't automatically mean I was making the wrong choice."

The words stayed with her.

Being scared didn't automatically mean she was making the wrong choice.

Amaya looked at the letter again.

"What if I go and hate it?"

"Then you'll come home."

"What if everyone is better than me?"

"Then you'll learn from them."

"What if I fail?"

"Then you'll have failed at something you cared enough to try."

Amaya frowned.

"You make everything sound simple."

"It isn't simple."

He reached across the table and gently tapped the envelope.

"But sometimes the hardest part is accepting that you can't know the ending before you begin."

Amaya looked toward the kitchen window.

The neighborhood was completely dark.

Then she heard it.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

She turned sharply.

Her father looked up.

"What?"

"I heard something."

"Probably a branch."

"There's no tree."

Her father stood.

"Let's check."

They walked to the back door.

Amaya switched on the outside light.

The yard was empty.

The porch was empty.

The fence was empty.

Then Amaya noticed something on the ground.

A small cardboard box.

It hadn't been there earlier.

Her father opened the door.

"Stay here."

He stepped outside and picked it up.

There was a name written on the top.

Amaya.

She stared.

"What is that?"

Her father brought it inside.

"I have no idea."

The box was small enough to fit in both hands.

Amaya carefully opened it.

Inside was an old cassette tape.

A photograph.

And a folded piece of paper.

She unfolded the paper.

Her eyes widened.

It was a note from her grandmother.

Amaya recognized the handwriting immediately.

Her grandmother had died three years earlier.

The note was short.

For the nights when your mind refuses to be quiet.

Amaya's throat tightened.

She looked at her father.

"Where did this come from?"

He looked just as confused.

"I don't know."

They examined the box.

There was no return address.

No explanation.

Just the tape, photograph, and note.

The photograph showed Amaya's grandmother standing outside a small art studio.

Amaya recognized the place.

It was the studio where her grandmother had painted for almost forty years.

The studio had been closed since her death.

Amaya picked up the cassette.

"What do you think is on this?"

Her father smiled.

"Probably a recording of your grandmother talking."

"But how would it get here?"

"I don't know."

They found an old cassette player in the hallway closet.

It took them several minutes to get it working.

Amaya pressed play.

Static filled the kitchen.

Then a familiar voice came through the tiny speaker.

"Hello, Amaya."

Amaya stopped breathing.

Her grandmother's voice was warm and gentle.

"I don't know when you're listening to this. Maybe you're sixteen. Maybe seventeen. Maybe older."

Amaya glanced at her father.

Her grandmother continued.

"But if you're listening in the middle of the night, I suspect you're worrying about something."

Amaya laughed quietly through the sudden tears in her eyes.

"She knew me too well."

Her grandmother's recorded voice continued.

"You're probably wondering if you're making the right decision."

Amaya stared at the cassette player.

The letter in her pocket suddenly felt much heavier.

Her grandmother continued.

"I spent a lot of my life waiting to feel ready. I waited to paint until I knew I was good enough. I waited to travel until I had enough money. I waited to tell people what I wanted because I was afraid they wouldn't understand."

There was a pause.

"And I learned something."

The recording crackled.

"Ready isn't a feeling. It's a decision."

Amaya closed her eyes.

Her grandmother's voice softened.

"You will never know exactly what happens next. None of us do. But that doesn't mean you should stay still."

Amaya looked down at the acceptance letter.

Her grandmother continued.

"Go where you're curious. Create what you want to create. Meet people who challenge you. Make mistakes. Laugh loudly. Come home when you need to. And remember that being afraid doesn't make you weak."

The recording ended.

The kitchen fell silent.

Amaya wiped her eyes.

Her father put an arm around her shoulders.

"Your grandmother planned that?"

"I don't know."

"She always did have good timing."

Amaya smiled.

She looked at the clock.

3:06 A.M.

"I think I'm going."

Her father nodded.

"I think you are too."

She pulled the letter from her pocket.

For the first time since she'd received it, she didn't feel afraid when she looked at it.

She felt nervous.

There was a difference.

Nervous meant something mattered.

Amaya stood.

"I'm going to finish my presentation."

Her father laughed.

"At three in the morning?"

"Why not?"

"Because tomorrow you're going to regret this."

"Probably."

She started toward the stairs.

Then she stopped.

"Dad?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you."

"For what?"

"For being awake."

He smiled.

"Sometimes the middle of the night is when people tell the truth."

Amaya went back upstairs.

Her bedroom looked exactly the same.

The moonlight still rested across the floor.

The clock still glowed.

2:17 was long gone.

She sat at her desk and opened her laptop.

For the next hour, she worked on her history presentation.

Then she opened a new document.

At the top, she typed:

Things I Want to Do Before I'm Afraid Again

She began writing.

Visit somewhere unfamiliar.

Paint something terrible.

Make a new friend.

Call Lena.

Tell her the truth.

Go to the summer program.

Ask questions.

Stop pretending I have everything figured out.

At the bottom, she added one more sentence.

Let myself begin.

She leaned back.

The sky outside her window was beginning to change.

Black slowly became navy.

Navy slowly became blue.

The first hint of sunrise appeared beyond the rooftops.

Amaya realized she wasn't tired anymore.

She walked to the window.

For a moment, she thought she saw someone standing at the end of the street.

An elderly woman.

Short silver hair.

A familiar blue coat.

Amaya blinked.

The street was empty.

She smiled anyway.

"Goodnight, Grandma," she whispered.

Or perhaps it was morning now.

She wasn't sure.

But for the first time in weeks, she didn't feel the need to know exactly what came next.

She opened her window.

Cool morning air rushed into the room.

Somewhere nearby, a bird began to sing.

Amaya took a deep breath.

Then she picked up her phone and called Lena.

The phone rang twice.

"Hello?" Lena answered sleepily.

"It's me."

"Amaya? It's almost five."

"I know."

"Is everything okay?"

Amaya smiled.

"Yeah."

A pause.

"Then why are you calling me at five in the morning?"

Amaya looked toward the sunrise.

"Because I finally made a decision."

"About the art program?"

"Yeah."

"And?"

Amaya smiled wider.

"I'm going."

There was silence.

Then Lena shouted so loudly that Amaya had to pull the phone away from her ear.

"YES!"

Amaya laughed.

The sound filled her room.

The sun finally appeared over the rooftops.

And just like that, the long night was over.

Amaya hadn't solved everything.

She was still scared.

She still had questions.

She still didn't know what the summer would bring.

But she had learned something important in the quietest hour of the night:

Sometimes you don't need to find all the answers before morning.

Sometimes you just need enough courage to stay awake long enough to see the light.