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Salt spray lashed Lena's face as she paced the deserted pier, boots thudding on slick wood. The foghorn wailed low, matching the knot in her chest. She'd come here after the letter—unsigned, slipped under her door: 'Find what you lost at dawn.'

Her hand trembled unlocking the old tackle box from her dad's boat, long rusted. Inside, nestled among hooks, was the notebook. Leather cracked, pages yellowed, smelling of brine and faint vanilla. She flipped it open to a blank spread.

'What did I lose?' she whispered, pen scratching the words. Ink bloomed unbidden below: 'The summer you were twelve. The lighthouse key.' Heart slamming, Lena's breath caught— that key, vanished after her brother's accident, the one she'd hidden in guilt.

Waves crashed louder as she gripped the pier rail, knuckles white. The fog thickened, swirling shapes like ghosts. She wrote faster: 'How do you know?' The reply seeped in, letters forming like veins: 'Because I was there. Ask the light.'

Racing uphill through dunes, sand gritty in her shoes, Lena reached the lighthouse. Door ajar, beam cutting fog in lazy sweeps. Inside, the spiral stairs creaked underfoot, air thick with oil and dust. At the top, the lamp hummed alive.

She scrawled on a fresh page: 'Who are you?' Wind howled through cracked panes. Ink pooled, then words: 'Your echo. The one you silenced.' A shadow flickered below—footsteps? Lena froze, pen hovering, the notebook warm in her palm like a pulse.