The salt hits you first—a sharp, clean bite that clears the fog of the city from your lungs. Then comes the sound: the deep, resonant boom of the Atlantic throwing itself against the cliffs, again and again, like a heartbeat older than memory.

You stand at the edge of St. Jude's Reach, suitcase in hand, staring up at The Watchman. The lighthouse rises from the jagged rock like a pale finger pointing accusingly at the sky. Its white paint is peeling, scarred by decades of wind and spray, and the lantern room at the top sits dark and lifeless—a blind eye staring out at the churning grey sea.

Your grandmother's key feels heavy in your pocket. Rusty iron, worn smooth by her grip. How many nights did she climb those stairs? How many ships did she guide home?

How many did she fail?

The town sprawls behind you—a cluster of weathered buildings huddled against the cliff like they're trying to keep warm. Fishing boats rock in the harbor, their masts swaying in a lazy rhythm. Somewhere below the cliff path, a bell buoy tolls, low and mournful.

You've been gone fifteen years. Long enough for the place to feel familiar and foreign in equal measure. The Salty Mug Café still sits on the corner, its windows glowing amber against the encroaching mist. A new sign reads Blackwood Development Corp. on what used to be Old Henderson's chandlery.

The lighthouse door stands before you, locked and waiting. But so does the town—its whispers, its stares, its secrets wrapped in salt and silence.

A gull cries overhead, and you notice something odd. Fresh scratch marks on the lighthouse door's lockplate. Someone else has been trying to get in. Recently.

The mist curls around your ankles, and the wind tugs at your coat, pulling you toward a decision.