Clara stepped off the creaking ferry, her boots sinking into the damp sand as the tide whispered against the shore. The lighthouse stood behind her, its white tower weathered by years of salt and wind, its beam sweeping the horizon like a silent sentinel. She hadn’t set foot in Marrow’s Hollow in ten years, but the air still tasted of brine and memory. The harbor smelled of fish and rust, and the gulls screeched overhead, their cries sharp as broken glass.
Elias was waiting at the edge of the dock, his coat flapping in the wind. He hadn’t changed—same broad shoulders, same dark hair streaked with gray at the temples. His eyes, though, were colder than she remembered. They locked onto hers, and for a moment, the world narrowed to that single, unspoken question: *Why?*
“You’re late,” he said, his voice flat, as if he’d been expecting her all along.
Clara swallowed the lump in her throat. “I didn’t think you’d still be here.”
“I never left.” He took a step closer, the scent of tar and seaweed rising between them. “You did.”
The words hung there, heavy as a storm. She turned toward the lighthouse, but he caught her wrist, his grip firm. His touch was like a shock—familiar, impossible. She pulled away, but his fingers lingered, tracing the scar on her palm, the one she’d gotten when she fell from the cliff as a child. The same cliff where her father had died.
“Why are you really back?” Elias asked, his voice lower now, almost a whisper.
Clara didn’t answer. She couldn’t. The truth was a stone in her chest, too big to swallow, too heavy to spit out.
—
The lighthouse was empty except for the wind. Clara ran her hand along the cold iron railing, feeling the grooves worn by decades of hands before hers. Her father’s hands. She could still hear his voice, low and steady, as he taught her how to light the beacon. *“It’s not just a light, Clara. It’s a promise,”* he’d said. *“A promise that no one gets lost out there.”*
But he’d been wrong.
She opened the door to the tower, the hinges groaning like a wounded animal. The stairs spiraled upward, each step creaking under her weight. At the top, the glass of the beacon was cracked, a jagged line running from edge to edge. She traced it with her finger, imagining the night her father had fallen—how the storm had roared, how the waves had clawed at the rocks below.
A voice cut through the silence. “You still don’t know, do you?”
Clara froze. Elias stood in the doorway, his silhouette framed by the dim light. He stepped inside, his boots echoing against the metal floor. “You came back for answers,” he said. “But you’re not ready to hear them.”
“I’m ready,” she said, though her voice wavered.
He tilted his head, studying her. “You’re still running from something.”
“I’m not!” The words came out sharper than she intended. Elias didn’t flinch. He just looked at her, and for a moment, the distance between them dissolved. She saw the boy he’d been—wild-haired and stubborn, chasing her through the dunes, promising her the world. She’d believed him once.
“You left me,” he said quietly. “You didn’t even say goodbye.”
The guilt was a knife in her ribs. “I had to.”
“Why?”
She opened her mouth, but no words came. The tower seemed to close in around her, the walls pressing tighter with every breath. She thought of the letter she’d left behind, the one she’d never sent. *“I can’t stay. I have to find out the truth.”* But what truth? What had she been searching for all those years?
Elias stepped closer, his hand hovering near her arm. “You’re afraid,” he said. “Of what you’ll find. Of what you’ll lose.”
Clara’s eyes burned. “I lost everything the night my father died.”
“Then let’s find out why.”
—
The storm came without warning. One moment, the sky was a pale gray; the next, it was a roiling mass of black and blue. The wind howled through the lighthouse, rattling the windows. Clara stood at the base of the tower, her hands clenched into fists as she watched the sea churn beyond the cliffs. Elias was already at the beacon, his coat billowing like a flag in the gale.
“Get inside!” she shouted over the wind.
“I can’t!” he yelled back. “The generator’s down! The light’s going out!”
Clara’s heart slammed against her ribs. The lighthouse was the only thing keeping the ships from crashing into the rocks. If the beacon failed, someone would die. She ran up the stairs, her boots slipping on the wet metal. Elias was halfway up, his face pale in the flashing light of the storm.
“Hold on!” she shouted, grabbing his arm as a gust of wind nearly swept him off the steps. He clung to the railing, his knuckles white. “I can’t reach the control panel!”
Clara pushed past him, her fingers fumbling with the rusted lever. The storm screamed around them, but she focused on the task—on the years of training, the lessons her father had drilled into her. She pulled the lever, and for a moment, nothing happened. Then the beacon flared to life, its beam cutting through the darkness like a sword.
Elias exhaled sharply. “You did it.”
Clara turned to him, her breath ragged. “We did it.”
The wind died down, leaving an eerie silence. The storm had passed, but the air was still charged, as if the sea itself was holding its breath. Elias stepped closer, his eyes searching hers. “You never told me why you left,” he said.
She looked away, the weight of the past pressing on her chest. “I thought I could find the truth on my own.”
“You didn’t have to.” His voice was quiet, but steady. “You could’ve come to me.”
Clara’s eyes stung. She wanted to say something—anything—but the words stuck. Instead, she reached for him, her hand finding his as the beacon’s light bathed them in gold. The storm had passed, but the real tempest was still raging inside her.
“Elias,” she whispered.
He pulled her into his arms, and for the first time in ten years, she felt safe. The lighthouse stood tall behind them, its light a promise that no one would be lost again. And as the first rays of dawn broke over the horizon, Clara knew the hardest part was just beginning.
