The lighthouse had been dark for seventeen years.
Maya pressed her palm against the salt-crusted door, feeling the Atlantic wind try to shove her backward off the cliff. The iron handle was frozen with rust and sea spray, but it gave way with a shriek that made her think of fingernails on chalkboard, or perhaps something worse—something that wanted to be heard.
Inside, the circular room smelled of rot and brine. Weak afternoon light filtered through windows so encrusted with grime that the world outside looked like an old photograph, all sepia tones and blurred edges. Maya's boots crunched on broken glass and something else, something organic that she chose not to examine too closely.
She hadn't come here for the view.
