The ferry captain will not look at the lighthouse. Even while he lifts your case onto the jetty, even while he tells you the return sailing has been cancelled, his eyes stay fixed on the wet boards between his boots. Your sister's letter has travelled farther than you have. The envelope is salted at the edges, and the address is written in the careful block capitals Mara used when she wanted you to take something seriously. Come before Friday, it says. There is something wrong with the light. Do not telephone the keeper. It is Friday. You have not spoken to Mara in almost a year. Beyond the harbour, Greyhaven rises in folds of slate roofs and dark grass. At its highest point stands the lighthouse where the two of you spent your childhood summers. Its beam moves across the water, pauses, and moves again. You remember a steady sweep. This feels like someone searching a room. The captain presses a receipt into your hand. On the back, in another person's handwriting, are the words: Her room is still warm. You turn, but he is already aboard. The engine pulls his little ferry into the mist. In the harbour office, a telephone rings twice and stops. Every window facing the jetty seems to have gone dark at once. You shoulder your case and follow the lane toward Mara's rented cottage. The light passes over you without stopping.
A missing sister. A falsified signal. One storm to decide what the truth will cost Greyhaven.
Listen closely. Choose carefully. Carry the consequences.
Every path leaves a different story.