The lighthouse was smaller than they’d expected. A whitewashed tooth on a gray cliff, its light not even spinning—just a steady, stubborn blink into the fog. The caretaker, a man named Earl who smelled like wet wool and salted peanuts, handed them a key without asking for ID. “Nobody comes here anymore,” he said. “You girls be careful on the stairs.”

“I’m just saying,” Stephie said, peeling a gummy worm from her thigh, “if we’re going to drive four hours to see a lighthouse that might be haunted, we should at least stop for decent coffee. Not gas station tar.”

Stephie’s voice was soft. “We’ll take her pictures. Video.”

Charlotte reached back and took Sylvie’s free hand. “Then we’ll describe it. We’ll tell her about the rain on our faces and the way the stairs creak and how the light doesn’t spin, it just is . Like a heartbeat. Like a stubborn old woman who refuses to go quietly.”