Early in the morning, I got up to prepare for my trip to the lighthouse. Professor Richard's words from last night lingered in my mind—my grandmother had once disappeared here for two weeks, and all clues pointed to that abandoned lighthouse.
I brought recording equipment, a camera, a compass, and a notebook with me. Before leaving, I hesitated, then placed my grandmother's pocket watch around my neck, letting it rest close to my heart. For some reason, I felt it might be the key to solving some puzzle.
The rain outside had stopped, but the entire town was shrouded in a thin fog, making the outlines of buildings blurry and soft. The streets were almost empty, with only a few cafés lit up, their scattered customers visible through the windows.
I walked into the nearest café and ordered a coffee and sandwich. The café's television was broadcasting the weather forecast, with the presenter mentioning that heavy fog was expected tonight, advising residents to limit going outside.
'Going to the lighthouse?' The café owner—a man in his sixties—raised his eyebrows. 'There's nothing much to see there, just some broken walls and dangerous cliffs.'
'I'm interested in its history,' I replied, 'especially the accident in the 1920s.'
The owner's hand visibly paused as he handed me the coffee, his eyes flickering with caution. 'That's ancient history, miss. Nothing worth digging up.'
'I heard the lighthouse keeper Jack Howard mysteriously disappeared during a storm?' I asked probingly.
The owner's expression became serious. 'There's an unwritten rule in this town—we don't discuss the Howard family, and we don't talk about that accident. Those who pry never come to any good.' He paused, lowering his voice, 'If you insist on going to that lighthouse, at least remember one thing: you must leave before sunset. Nobody should be near that place at night, especially on foggy nights.'
With this ominous warning, I left the café and followed the winding coastline towards the lighthouse. The path to the lighthouse had long been abandoned, overgrown with weeds, and I had to carefully avoid the rugged rocks and hidden potholes.
After walking for about twenty minutes, I noticed a strange phenomenon—my compass began spinning wildly, completely losing direction. The GPS on my mobile also showed my position constantly jumping, as if I existed in multiple locations simultaneously. Even stranger, the pocket watch turned cold again, with the second hand moving counterclockwise.
I stopped and looked around. There was something special about this coastline, more intuitive than sensory—the air seemed denser, the way sound travelled was subtly different, even the angle of light refraction seemed slightly odd. It was as if reality had been slightly distorted.
Continuing forward, I found some strange items scattered on the beach: an old glass bottle containing a yellowed note; a rusty piece of metal with partial numbers engraved; and several irregularly shaped stones arranged in a geometric pattern. These things looked like they had been washed ashore by the tide, but their arrangement seemed too deliberate.
I crouched down and picked up the glass bottle. The note inside was damaged, with only a few words discernible: '...cycle...September...waiting...' The handwriting was blurred, but the style oddly reminded me of my grandmother's handwritten diary.
Just as I was examining these items, a sharp voice broke the silence of the beach.
'Don't touch those things! They don't belong to this time!'
I turned in surprise to see an old fisherman standing not far away, holding a wooden cane. He was about seventy, with wrinkles on his face like a map carved by sea winds, his grey beard almost covering the lower half of his face.
'What do you mean, not belonging to this time?' I asked, carefully putting down the bottle.
The old man limped closer, eyeing me warily. 'You're one of the Morrisons, aren't you? You have her eyes.'
My heart raced. 'You knew my grandmother? Emily Morrison?'
'That summer thirty years ago,' the old man nodded, 'she was just like you, with an unhealthy curiosity about the lighthouse.' He paused, 'I'm William Stone. Back then I was a young fisherman and witnessed her... disappearance. Right on this shore.'
'How long was she gone? How did she disappear?' I asked eagerly.
'Two weeks and three days,' William answered precisely, 'as if swallowed by the fog. When she returned, she was in a strange state, constantly mumbling dates and times. But most disturbing was—she hadn't aged a day, as if time had stopped for her.'
I unconsciously touched the pocket watch on my chest. 'This watch was left to me by her.'
William's gaze fell on my watch, a flash of fear in his eyes. 'That watch... it's the key.' He suddenly grabbed my arm with surprising strength. 'Listen, young lady, leave this place while you still can. Time is unstable here, especially near the lighthouse.'
'What do you mean?'
'The waves wash up more than just shells and seaweed,' he pointed at the glass bottle, 'sometimes, they're fragments from other times.'
This statement sounded both absurd and poetic, but strangely, after my experiences of the past few days, I was beginning to find it credible.
'Do you know what happened to Jack Howard?' I asked.
The old man's gaze became distant. 'Nobody really knows. Some say he was devoured by time, others say he voluntarily entered the rift. The only certainty is that after that storm, the lighthouse never lit up again.'
'Rift? What rift?'
William suddenly looked like he regretted saying too much. 'I've said enough. Remember my warning, leave the shore before sunset.' With that, he turned and left, soon disappearing behind a bend in the coastline.
I continued towards the lighthouse, increasingly feeling its presence. Even though I couldn't see it yet, the attraction was unmistakably clear, as if an invisible thread was pulling me.
On the way, I discovered a strange sight—a small patch of seawater showing an unnatural blue colour, in stark contrast to the surrounding water. Moving closer to observe, I was surprised to find that the waves in this area seemed to be moving at an extremely slow pace, almost like footage slowed down tenfold. I gently touched the area with a branch, which was immediately pulled into the water by an invisible force, then floated slowly in a dreamlike manner.
I quickly recorded this phenomenon, took several photos, but intuition told me this anomaly wouldn't show up in photographs.
Finally, climbing the last steep slope, the lighthouse came into view. Up close, it was taller and more dilapidated than I had imagined. The glass at the top of the lighthouse had long been shattered, exposing the internal mechanical structure, like a giant skeleton. The walls of the lighthouse were covered in cracks, with bricks and stones loosened in some places, looking like they might collapse at any moment.
But most striking was the iron door at the base of the lighthouse—despite the entire building showing signs of long-term disrepair, this door was remarkably intact, even faintly gleaming with a metallic lustre, as if someone regularly maintained it.
I approached the iron door, surprised to find it unlocked. With a gentle push, the door opened with a dull creaking sound. Behind it was darkness, with only faint light entering through small windows in the wall and cracks in the ceiling.
I hesitated, but ultimately stepped inside. The air inside was stuffy and damp, with an old smell of metal mixed with sea salt. I turned on my torch, the beam illuminating a narrow spiral staircase leading to the upper levels of the lighthouse.
Just as I was about to go upstairs to explore, a detail caught my attention—a mirror hanging on the wall near the door, still intact despite being covered in dust. I approached the mirror, wiped away the dust with my hand, and suddenly gasped.
In the mirror, I was wearing a blue dress I had never seen before, instead of the jeans and jacket I had put on this morning. Even more shocking, there was a blurry male figure standing behind my reflection, his hand gently resting on my shoulder, his lips appearing to move as if saying something.
I spun around, but there was no one behind me. Looking back at the mirror, I saw only my own terrified face and the clothes I was actually wearing. The vision had lasted less than a second, but I was certain I had seen something.
My heart pounded, cold sweat breaking out on my forehead. Reason told me I should leave immediately, but some force prevented me from moving. Instead, I was driven by an inexplicable impulse to climb the spiral staircase towards the top of the lighthouse.
With each step, the pocket watch on my chest grew colder. By the time I finally reached the top, it was almost burning my skin with its coldness.
The top of the lighthouse was a circular room with the abandoned lighthouse lamp in the centre. Most of the surrounding windows were broken, allowing the sea breeze to freely pass through the room. In a far corner, I saw a table covered with a dust sheet.
Lifting the dust sheet, I found a leather-bound notebook, an ancient sextant, and several yellowed drawings on the table. The notebook was inscribed with elegant handwriting 'J. H. 1925'—Jack Howard's journal.
I carefully opened the notebook, and on the first page was written:
'Time is not a river, but an ocean. What we perceive as reality is just a single drop of water. If one finds the right way, one can see the entire ocean. Ella, if you are reading these words, it means the cycle has begun again.'
My name. Unmistakably my name.
A sudden dizziness came over me, and I had to hold onto the table to stay upright. How could Jack Howard possibly know my name? This journal was written in 1925, nearly a century before I was born.
Just then, I heard the lighthouse horn sound in my ears, so close as if the lighthouse had become operational again. Immediately after, a thick fog rushed in through the broken windows, quickly filling the entire room. I found it difficult to breathe, and my vision became blurry.
The pocket watch on my chest suddenly emitted a dazzling blue light, the glass face rippling like water. The entire room began to spin, and I felt a strong pulling sensation, as if being dragged into some kind of vortex.
In my last moment of consciousness, I saw the room changing—broken windows repairing themselves, the lamp lighting up again, dust disappearing, everything coming back to life, as if time were flowing backwards.
Then I lost consciousness.