The phone lay on the lighthouse steps, where the tide had left a necklace of weed.
It was an old black telephone, heavy enough to crack a skull. Its cord had been cut clean through.
It rang.
Mara stood above it with her morning tea cooling in her hand. There were no boats in the harbor. No footprints on the steps but hers.
It rang again.
She carried it inside and set it on the kitchen table. The bell stopped as soon as she lifted the receiver.
For a moment she heard only water: a slow, patient drip.
Then a man said, “Has the light gone out yet?”
“No.”
“Good. We still have time.”
Mara looked toward the stairs. Above her, the great lens continued its steady turning.
“Who is this?”
The man began to cry.
She recognized him before he answered.
It was her husband, and she had scattered his ashes yesterday.