The storm had left the causeway slick with kelp, and Elias found the phone tangled in it—a black rectangle, screen cracked but glowing. He turned it over. No name, no case, only a salt-stiff cord tied through the charging port like a lanyard. He almost tossed it into the keep’s stove. Then it rang.
He let it ring. It stopped. Started again. The third time, he wiped his hands and answered.
“Elias?” a woman said. Static breathed behind her voice. “You’re still there.”
He had been alone on the island for eleven years. No one called him. The lighthouse radio barely worked, and the supply boat came once a month.
“Who is this?”
“Listen.” Her voice cracked. “When the light comes on tonight, don’t look at the water. And whatever you do—” The line went dead. The phone rang again. This time, the screen showed his own number.