Clara stood at the edge of the cliff, her boots sinking into the damp sand as the wind tugged at her wool coat. The lighthouse loomed behind her, its beam slicing through the gray afternoon like a blade. She hadn’t expected anyone to come this late in the season, but the note had been clear: *Meet me at the old tower. Midnight.* Her fingers curled around the crumpled paper, the ink smudged by rain. She didn’t know who had left it, but the address was familiar—the abandoned observatory on the far side of the island, its windows boarded up since the fire years ago. The air smelled of salt and decay, and the gulls cried overhead, their cries sharp as broken glass.
The door creaked when she pushed it open, revealing a cavernous room thick with dust. A single beam of light slanted through a cracked window, illuminating the rows of rusted telescopes and overturned chairs. Clara stepped deeper, her boots echoing against the stone floor. Then she saw him—standing beneath the shattered dome, his back to her, arms folded. He turned as she approached, and for a moment, neither spoke.
“You came,” he said. His voice was low, roughened by smoke and sleepless nights.
“I didn’t have a choice.” She crossed her arms, studying him. He looked older than the photos she’d seen—older, and wearier. The scar above his brow was deeper than she remembered, a jagged line against his pale skin. “Why here?”
He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he reached into his coat and pulled out a photograph. It was yellowed at the edges, the image blurred by time. Clara’s breath caught. It was her, standing on the same cliff where she’d stood minutes ago, her face half-turned toward the sea. “I found this in the archives,” he said. “It was taken the day the fire started.”
“That’s not possible,” she whispered. “The archives were destroyed.”
“Maybe they weren’t.” His gaze didn’t waver. “Or maybe someone wanted you to find it.”
A gust of wind slammed the door shut, rattling the windows. Clara’s pulse quickened. She wanted to believe he was lying, that this was some cruel joke, but the photo felt real—too real. “Who are you?”
“Someone who’s been waiting for you.” He stepped closer, and for the first time, she noticed the faint tremor in his hands. “I need your help, Clara. The fire wasn’t an accident.”
She shook her head, backing toward the door. “You don’t get to come back after all this time and expect me to believe you.”
“I’m not asking you to believe me,” he said quietly. “I’m asking you to remember.”
The room seemed to shrink around them, the air thick with something unspoken. Clara opened her mouth to argue, but the sound of footsteps echoed from the hallway. Someone else was here.
“We need to go,” he said, grabbing her arm. His grip was firm, urgent. “Now.”
The door burst open, and a figure stood in the threshold, silhouetted against the storm-lit sky. Clara’s stomach dropped. She knew that silhouette—knew it better than her own. “You shouldn’t have come back,” the figure said, their voice cold as iron. “This isn’t your fight anymore.”
“It never was,” the man beside her replied. “But I’m done running.”
The figure stepped forward, and Clara saw the gun in their hand. The world slowed. She could hear the rush of blood in her ears, feel the rough texture of the floor beneath her palms. Then the shot rang out, and everything went white.
—
Clara woke to the sound of waves. Her head throbbed, and the taste of copper filled her mouth. She blinked up at a ceiling of warped wooden planks, the scent of damp wood and old smoke clinging to the air. A fire crackled in the hearth, its light casting long shadows across the room.
“You’re awake,” a voice said.
She turned, expecting to see the man from the observatory, but the figure sitting by the fire was different—older, with silver-threaded hair and eyes that held a quiet sorrow. “Who are you?” she rasped.
“A friend,” he said. “Or at least, I was.” He gestured to the chair across from him. “Sit. You’ve been through enough.”
Clara hesitated, then lowered herself onto the creaking seat. The room was small, its walls lined with books and faded photographs. A clock ticked on the mantel, its hands frozen at 3:17. “Where am I?”
“The old inn,” he said. “The one that burned down.”
Her pulse quickened. “That’s impossible.”
“Nothing is what it seems anymore,” he said. “Not here. Not after the fire.”
Clara’s fingers dug into the armrest. “What happened?”
The man exhaled, his gaze distant. “You were there, Clara. You saw it all.”
“I don’t remember.”
“You will.” He leaned forward, his voice low. “But you have to be ready for the truth.”
Outside, the wind howled, rattling the windows. Clara stared at the fire, its embers glowing like distant stars. She didn’t know if she wanted to remember—or if she’d regret it when she did.
—
The next morning, Clara found herself in a small kitchen, the scent of coffee and burnt toast filling the air. The man from the night before was gone, but a note lay on the counter, scrawled in messy handwriting: *They’re watching. Don’t trust anyone.*
She pocketed the note and stepped outside, the chill of dawn biting at her skin. The island was quiet, save for the distant caw of gulls. She walked toward the cliffs, her boots crunching over gravel. The lighthouse stood in the distance, its beam still rotating, though it hadn’t been used in years.
A figure waited at the base of the tower. Clara slowed her pace, her hand drifting to the knife she’d found in the inn’s drawer. “You’re not supposed to be here,” the figure said.
“Neither are you.”
The man—tall, with a scar running from his temple to his jaw—tilted his head. “You don’t remember me, do you?”
“Should I?”
He stepped closer, and for a moment, something in his eyes shifted. “We were friends,” he said. “Before the fire.”
Clara’s breath caught. “That’s not possible.”
“Isn’t it?” He reached into his coat and pulled out a photograph. It was the same one from the observatory, but this time, she recognized the people in it—herself, the man from the tower, and a woman with dark hair and a knowing smile. “We were all here,” he said. “And something went wrong.”
“What happened?”
He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he looked past her, toward the horizon. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “But I’m not leaving until I find out.”
Clara stared at the photo, her mind churning. The fire, the missing years, the people who had vanished—everything connected, but the pieces didn’t fit. She wanted to walk away, to pretend this was some strange dream, but something in her knew this was real. And if the fire had taken more than just lives, she needed to know what.
—
The days blurred into a haze of secrets and silence. Clara spent her nights in the inn, poring over old newspapers and faded letters, while the man from the cliffs watched her from a distance. The island itself felt like a character—its narrow roads, its whispering trees, the way the tide seemed to pull at the shore like an unspoken warning.
One evening, she found herself in the archives, the dust thick in the air, the scent of old paper and mildew clinging to her skin. She ran her fingers over a row of files, their labels faded with time. Then she saw it—*Project Lighthouse*, the name scrawled in jagged letters.
The file was empty, but a single sentence had been written in the margin: *The light is not what it seems.*
A noise echoed from the hallway. Clara froze, her heart hammering. She didn’t know who was out there, but she knew one thing—this wasn’t over. The fire had taken something from her, and now, she was ready to find it.
—
The final night came with a storm that shook the island to its core. Clara stood at the edge of the cliffs, the wind howling around her, as the lighthouse beam cut through the darkness. The man from the tower joined her, his face illuminated by the glow.
“You’re sure about this?” he asked.
“I have to be.”
He nodded, and together, they climbed the spiral stairs, each step echoing in the hollow structure. At the top, the beam was still rotating, its light casting long shadows across the walls. Clara reached for the switch, her fingers trembling.
“What happens if we turn it off?”
“We see what’s been hidden,” he said. “But once you look, there’s no going back.”
She took a deep breath and pulled the lever. The light died, plunging the room into darkness. Then, from the depths of the tower, a sound—low, resonant, like a heartbeat.
The storm raged on outside, but inside, everything changed. Clara didn’t know what she’d find in the dark, but she knew one thing: the truth had been waiting for her all along.
