The salt-kissed air stank of brine and decay as Elara pressed her palms against the rusted gate, its chains groaning like wounded beasts. The lighthouse loomed ahead, its skeletal silhouette etched against the bruised sky. She’d heard the stories—how the Hollowed took children who wandered too close, how the light never turned on, how the sea whispered secrets to those who listened. But her mother’s journal had called her here, its pages yellowed and smudged with something that wasn’t ink.
The gate gave way with a shriek, and Elara stepped onto the overgrown path. Brambles clawed at her jeans, and the wind carried the metallic tang of blood. She remembered the last time she’d seen her mother, standing at the edge of this very cliff, her face lit by the dying sun. “Don’t go near the lighthouse,” she’d whispered, eyes hollow. “They’re waiting for you.”
A flicker in the shadows. Elara froze. The air thickened, pressing against her skin like a living thing. She turned, but the path was empty. Only the waves crashed below, their rhythm steady, insistent.
The lighthouse door creaked open under her touch, revealing a spiral staircase spiraling into darkness. Her flashlight beam sliced through the gloom, catching glimpses of symbols carved into the stone—snakes coiled around broken clocks, eyes staring from the walls. A chill crawled up her spine. This wasn’t just a ruin. It was a tomb.
Footsteps echoed above. Elara ducked behind a pillar as a figure descended the stairs, their silhouette distorted by the flickering light. The person paused, head tilting as if sensing her presence. Elara held her breath, heart pounding like a trapped bird. Then they turned, vanishing into the shadows.
She followed, her boots silent on the stone. The stairs opened into a cavernous chamber, its ceiling lost in darkness. At the center stood a dais, and on it, a mirror—no, not a mirror. A portal. Its surface rippled like liquid mercury, reflecting not her face, but a version of herself with hollow eyes and a smile that didn’t reach her mouth.
“You shouldn’t be here,” a voice said. Elara spun. A girl no older than her stood in the doorway, her hair the color of storm clouds. “Who are you?” Elara demanded. The girl tilted her head. “I’m what’s left of you, if you stay.”
The portal pulsed, and Elara felt a pull, a whisper in her bones. She stepped forward—
—
The next morning, the town awoke to the sound of the lighthouse beacon, its beam slicing through the fog. The mayor stood at the cliff’s edge, his face pale. “She’s gone,” he said, though no one asked. The journal lay open on the table, its final page blank.
In the shadows of the lighthouse, a new figure watched. Their eyes glowed faintly, and they whispered to the wind, “She’s ready.”
—
The Hollowed Hour wasn’t just a legend. It was a choice. And Elara had made hers.
