I hate rainy days.
Especially like today, when my alarm goes off at four a.m., and outside the window, the grey sky is pouring down relentless rain. The drain below my apartment building is blocked, water flooding up the steps, which means I must wade through ice-cold water to start that second-hand car that often refuses to cooperate.
But what I hate even more is that my supervisor, Professor Richard, sent a text message at three a.m., telling me I must go to the seaside at Fog Corner town today to complete meteorological data collection, "because today's weather pattern perfectly matches the prediction model." Of course, he himself is at the warm and dry International Meteorology Conference, while I, his doctoral researcher Ella Morrison, must face this stormy morning alone.
I sighed, forcing myself to leave the warm bed, tie my wet hair into a ponytail, and put on a waterproof jacket. The coffee machine in the kitchen had been broken for three days, and my apartment landlord still hadn't come to fix it, which meant I had to start this terrible day without caffeine. I looked at the still-steaming Starbucks cup on my roommate Lisa's desk, bought last night before she came back from overtime work and fell straight asleep. That cup of coffee sat there quietly, as if mocking me.
Three months ago, while I was buried in work at the laboratory, other graduate students in my cohort all received internship invitations from well-known private companies, with salaries three times my research assistant stipend. And I, because of my persistence with this "commercially worthless" anomalous weather research project, can only continue living hand to mouth. Yesterday afternoon, my ex-boyfriend Jason announced his engagement to his new girlfriend on social media, that woman who always complained about his busy work schedule, wearing on her finger the diamond ring I had once dreamed of but Jason had said was "too expensive."
I shook my head, throwing these negative emotions to the back of my mind. At least my research was making progress, however slight. The past two weeks' data showed that the meteorological anomalies at Fog Corner aligned with my hypothesis—the fog in this small town didn't appear randomly, but followed a pattern that was almost mathematically precise. If I could prove this point, my doctoral thesis would fill an important gap in current meteorology.
The car struggled forward on the muddy road, the windscreen wipers making an irritating squeaking sound. When the GPS showed we were five minutes away from the destination, my mobile suddenly lost signal. This wasn't uncommon in Fog Corner—this coastal town surrounded by mountains was known for its poor communication conditions.
Just then, my headlights illuminated a figure by the roadside—an old man standing in the rain, without an umbrella, wearing only a tattered raincoat. It was too strange to see someone standing in the wilderness in this weather, at this time. I slowed down as I drove past, glimpsing from the corner of my eye that the old man turned to look at my car, his pale face revealing an eerie smile, his lips moving as if saying something.
A chill crept up my spine, and I accelerated past him.
Finally reaching my destination, I struggled to set up the meteorological equipment, with cold rainwater running down my neck and into my collar. The wind by the sea was stronger than I had anticipated, almost blowing over the lightweight tripod. I adjusted the equipment with frozen fingers, trying hard to record all the data.
Just then, a sound struck my eardrums.
It was a low, prolonged sound, like some sort of large horn or alarm. I looked up toward the direction the sound came from—toward the lighthouse by the sea. But this was impossible.
Everyone who had lived or worked in Fog Corner knew that the lighthouse had been destroyed in an accident nearly a hundred years ago, with only ruins remaining. It couldn't possibly make any sound.
My heart rate accelerated, and I unconsciously gripped my notebook tighter. The sound rang out again, clearer this time. I picked up my binoculars and looked toward the lighthouse through the rain.
My breath caught for a moment.
On the ruins of the lighthouse, there was a light. Not sunlight, not a reflection, but a real, rotating beam of light, as if the lighthouse were still operating.
Even more incredibly, my watch—that old silver pocket watch left to me by my grandmother—began to turn in an impossible way. The hands rotated counterclockwise, slowly, as if time were flowing backwards.
At the same time, my meteorological equipment's screen displayed an impossible set of data: at eight forty-seven and six seconds, the air completely stopped for 8.7 seconds. At the seaside, in a storm, this completely defied the laws of physics.
A sudden fog rose from the sea surface, rapidly spreading to my position. Not ordinary fog—it was too dense, almost like a solid entity, and moving at an unnatural speed. With a rational scientific mind, I knew I should pack up my equipment and leave immediately.
But the lighthouse sound rang out again, this time almost like a call.
Even more shocking, in that thick fog, I heard a voice. A woman's voice, clearly calling my name: "Ella..."
The voice sounded strangely familiar, like my own voice, yet with an emotional quality I couldn't identify.
"Ella... the lighthouse... find him..."
My heart was almost bursting out of my chest. Fear and curiosity battled within me, but scientific instinct won out. I took out my mobile to record this voice, only to find it completely drained of power—despite having 80% battery just ten minutes earlier.
The fog grew thicker, almost engulfing my vision. In the milky white haze, I saw what seemed to be a human figure in the fog, reaching out toward me.
Reason told me I should flee, but an inexplicable attraction made me take a step forward, walking toward that blurry figure.
Just as my fingertips were about to touch that fog, a shrill telephone ring broke through everything.
I snapped back to awareness, finding myself standing by the sea, my arm extended toward the fog that had already begun to dissipate. The ring came from my equipment box—it was the alarm from the backup walkie-talkie.
After the fog cleared, the lighthouse returned to its proper state—a broken, lifeless ruin. No light, no sound, everything back to normal.
The only proof that what had just happened wasn't an illusion was the impossible data recorded by my meteorological equipment, and the date stopped at September 15, 1925, on my watch.
A chill ran up my spine. My grandmother's pocket watch had never displayed the year before.