The morning came slow, gray light leaking through the cracks in the curtains. I woke to the smell of salt and damp wood, the sea whispering outside like it was calling me by name.
Lila was already gone. Her teacup sat cold on the table downstairs, a small note tucked beneath it.
Down by the rocks. When the water pulls back.
The handwriting was careful and small. After putting it in my pocket, I went outside.
First came the cold, clear, mist-laden wind. Above me, the lighthouse swung around, its light fading in the daylight. Boots slipping on the damp grass, I made my way down the narrow path to the cliffs.
Now that the waves had rolled back, the sea was lower, exposing fragments of what they had concealed. Broken glass. Rope fragments. driftwood.
Then something else.
A metal box hal
