Nora searched the lighthouse for three days. She tapped on walls, lifted floorboards and shook out every book in the keeper’s study. On the fourth afternoon, while she was oiling the iron stairs, she noticed that the bottom step rang differently from the others: a hollow note, like a drum. She knelt, pressed her fingers along the edge, and felt a catch. The step swung upward on a hinge.
Below it was a ladder, and below the ladder was a low cellar she had not found on any plan. It smelled of damp and tar. By the light of her phone she saw shelves, a lantern, a folded blanket and a steel case with a brass clasp. It wasn’t locked.
Inside, wrapped in oilcloth, she found a stack of photographs, a bundle of letters, and a row of small glass jars, each sealed with wax and labeled in her grandfather’s hand. The first label read: Water, east shoal, three miles out. The second said: Water, same place, one month later. Nora lifted the jars to the light and saw that the second one was a different colour.
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