The phone washed up on the third day of the storm, tangled in kelp at the base of the lighthouse like something the sea had decided to give back.
Maren found it on her morning circuit, screen cracked but still glowing. She hadn't heard a phone ring in the eleven years since she'd taken the post at Eel Point. The mainland lay forty miles off, and the only voices that ever reached her came through the old radio set, all static and official weather warnings.
She carried it inside, meaning to dry it by the stove, and it began to ring—thin and bright beneath the foghorn's endless drone.
She let it ring through breakfast. Through her log entries. Through the long gray hours of the afternoon. It never stopped, never went to voicemail, never died.
At dusk, she finally answered.
"Maren," said her mother's voice. "You have to stop letting them in."