The lighthouse had been dark for thirty years. That was the official story. The story written in the town archives, printed in the tourist brochures, and muttered by the fishermen who drank too much at The Rusty Anchor.

But Clara knew different. Because Clara was watching it burn.

Not with fire. Fire would have been clean. Fire would have been loud. This was a cold burn, a silent, white phosphorescence that seemed to eat the stone from the inside out. It pulsed like a heartbeat, slow and rhythmic, matching the pounding in her own chest.

She tightened her grip on the railing of the cliff walk. The wind here didn't just blow; it bit. It carried the taste of salt and... something else. Ash? No, darker. Old earth and things that had been buried too long.