The phone washed up with the Tuesday tide, wedged between two rocks below the lighthouse, its screen cracked like river ice. Marguerite almost left it there. Forty years of keeping the light had taught her that the sea returned things it had no use for, and most of them were better left alone.
But it was ringing.
She carried it up the spiral stairs, salt water dripping behind her, and set it on the kitchen table. It should have been dead. Nothing survived that long in the water. Yet the screen glowed steadily, and the same name flashed again and again.
Marguerite.
She wiped her hands on her apron. Nobody on the mainland had her number. Nobody had called the lighthouse since her husband died.
On the sixth ring, she answered.
For a moment there was only the sound of waves, though the sea outside her window was calm.
Then a woman's voice, breathless and unmistakably her own, said, "Don't light the lamp tonight."