The air smelled of salt and diesel as Clara navigated the narrow dock, her boots splashing in the wake of the fishing boats. She’d always hated the way the harbor reeked of brine and decay, but today the stench felt different—thicker, like the town itself was holding its breath. She tightened her grip on the weathered notebook tucked under her arm, its pages filled with sketches of the lighthouse she’d sworn never to return to. The structure loomed in the distance, its once-proud white paint now peeling, a relic of a life she’d buried years ago.
The door creaked as she stepped inside, the scent of mildew and old wood filling her lungs. A single bulb flickered overhead, casting jagged shadows across the walls. She hadn’t been here since the night it all ended—since the fire, the sirens, the way the flames had devoured everything except the lighthouse itself. She’d left it to rot, convinced it was a tomb for her brother, but now the town council was forcing her to take it back. A new owner. A new lease on whatever remained.
A voice cut through the silence. “You’re late.”
Clara froze. The voice was low, rough, and unmistakably male. She turned slowly, her pulse a frantic beat in her ears. A man stood near the base of the tower, his silhouette framed by the slanted light from the high windows. He was tall, broad-shouldered, his face half-hidden in shadow. But it wasn’t the man that made her breath catch—it was the way he stood, arms crossed, as if he belonged here, as if this place had always been his.
“I wasn’t aware there was a schedule,” she said, her voice steady despite the storm raging inside her.
He stepped forward, and the light revealed sharp features, a scar running from his temple to his jaw. His eyes were the color of storm clouds, unreadable. “You’re Clara Voss.”
She didn’t answer. She didn’t need to. The name still carried weight here, even after all these years.
“I’m Jordan Hale,” he said. “I’m here to help you fix the lighthouse.”
Clara’s laugh was bitter. “You must be confused. I don’t need help.”
“You’re the owner,” he said. “The town’s not letting you walk away this time.”
She studied him, searching for something—any sign that he knew what this place meant. But his expression remained neutral, as if he’d already made up his mind about her. “Then you’re wasting your time,” she said, turning toward the door.
“Wait.” His voice was quieter now, almost a plea. “I know what happened here. I know about your brother.”
The words hit her like a physical blow. She spun around, her hand flying to her chest. “How do you—”
“I’ve been looking for answers,” he interrupted. “And I think you have them.”
The tension between them was tangible, a current that crackled in the air. Clara wanted to walk away, to shut him out as she had everyone else. But something in his voice—something raw and unguarded—made her hesitate. She took a step closer, her voice barely above a whisper. “What do you want from me?”
Jordan exhaled, running a hand through his dark hair. “I need to know why the fire started. And why it didn’t kill him.”
Clara’s knees nearly gave out. She’d spent years avoiding that question, burying the truth beneath layers of denial. But now, standing here in the heart of her past, she felt the weight of it pressing down on her. “You don’t want to know,” she said, but the words felt empty, hollow.
“I do,” he said simply. “Because I think I’m connected to it.”
The silence that followed was deafening. Clara looked at him, really looked at him, and for the first time in years, she felt something stir inside her—something dangerous, something she couldn’t afford to let live again.
“Come with me,” she said finally. “I’ll show you what you’re asking for.”
He nodded, and as they stepped out into the biting wind, Clara wondered if she’d just set something in motion that couldn’t be undone.
