I stare at the lighthouse beam slicing the fog, its white edge trembling like a heartbeat.
The radio crackles, a voice half‑gone, "…hold…", then silence. I feel the deck shiver under my boots.
Captain Reed leans over, his eyes narrowed. "Never been like that," he mutters, but his fingers twitch around a tarnished medallion.
My notebook slides open on its own, a page fluttering to a half‑written warning: the light that sees.
A cold breath brushes my neck, though no wind blows. My pulse races, and I glimpse a dark shape flicker behind the beam.
I can write it down, or I can demand answers—before the light swallows the horizon.