Mayor Clark and his two assistants lingered on the middle level of the lighthouse, meticulously examining every document and piece of equipment. He was a tall man dressed in an impeccable dark suit, still wearing his bowler hat even in such tempestuous weather, asserting his authority. His eyes were sharp as an eagle's, seemingly searching for any trace of irregularity.
"What are these?" he enquired, pointing to the three pocket watches on the table, his tone laden with suspicion.
Jack answered with measured calm: "Family heirlooms, Mr Clark. A collection of pocket watches passed down through generations of the Howard family."
The mayor picked up one and examined it carefully. Fortunately, the watch displayed no unusual behaviour at that moment. "Rather peculiar design," he remarked, then set down the watch and turned to the stack of documents. "These records indicate abnormal increases in the lighthouse's energy consumption over the past few weeks. How do you account for this?"
"The storm season necessitates more frequent equipment testing," Jack explained, his voice steady. "Ensuring the beacon functions properly during severe weather is absolutely vital."
Time ticked away relentlessly, the wall clock showing 4:30 PM. The storm grew increasingly violent, the lighthouse trembling in the fierce gale, rain lashing mercilessly against the windows, thunder rumbling almost without cessation.
I endeavoured to appear composed, but inwardly I was fraught with anxiety. I needed to examine the contents of the envelope, but couldn't possibly do so in the mayor's presence. More crucially, only one hour and seventeen minutes remained until the critical moment, and we needed to find a way to rid ourselves of these unwelcome visitors.
"Mr Clark," I attempted to divert the conversation, "I've heard that Fog Point harbours many legends about disappearing lighthouse keepers. As someone with an interest in history, I'd be fascinated to learn more."
The question seemed to touch a nerve with the mayor. He paused his inspection and fixed his gaze directly upon me: "Miss Morrison, why this particular interest in such a topic?"
"Mere curiosity," I maintained an innocent expression. "As Jack's cousin, I naturally have an interest in his family history."
The mayor fell silent momentarily, as if weighing how much to divulge. "The Howard family's lighthouse keepers do indeed have a... rather unusual history," he finally spoke. "Every few generations, a keeper mysteriously vanishes. The most notable case was Arthur Howard in 1826."
"I was under the impression Arthur didn't disappear?" Jack interjected, glancing at me, evidently surprised by the mayor's assertion.
"That is the official record," the mayor acknowledged, "but my grandfather's private journal tells quite a different tale. Arthur Howard did continue as lighthouse keeper for many years after that incident, but that man... wasn't entirely Arthur anymore."
"Whatever do you mean?" I asked, genuinely intrigued.
"He changed," the mayor's voice lowered, almost as if recounting a ghost story. "His knowledge, behaviour, even certain skills, were different from Arthur before the accident. The elders in town believed that the real Arthur Howard vanished in that lighthouse incident, and was replaced by... someone else entirely."
A chill crept up my spine. This aligned perfectly with our theory—Jack might be sent back to 1826, replacing or becoming "Arthur."
"There was also Thomas Howard in 1825," the mayor continued, "the keeper before Arthur. Records indicate he mysteriously perished on a stormy night, but his body was never recovered. Curiously, that was also September the 21st."
Jack's expression grew solemn. This was information we had never encountered before—possibly before 1826, another lighthouse keeper had experienced a similar fate.
Just then, a blinding bolt of lightning struck the lighthouse, causing the entire structure to shudder violently. The lights extinguished momentarily. After a few seconds of complete darkness, the emergency lamps automatically illuminated, but the main beacon remained dark.
"The main light must be restored immediately!" Jack said with urgency. "In a tempest like this, vessels depend entirely on the lighthouse's guidance."
The mayor nodded, temporarily setting aside his investigation: "What assistance do you require?"
"I need to examine the mechanical apparatus on the top level," Jack quickly responded. "Ella, could you fetch the spare components from the storage room? The one beneath the south staircase."
I immediately comprehended Jack's intention—this was an opportunity for me to examine the envelope privately. "Of course," I answered, swiftly departing the room.
The storage room was cramped and dimly lit, but adequately secluded. I hastily closed the door and extracted the envelope. Inside lay a folded paper and a small key. The paper read:
"Dear Ella, If you are reading this letter, events have progressed to a critical juncture. The key opens a concealed cabinet on the west wall of the lighthouse's ground floor. Inside are several items I've prepared that might prove useful in an emergency. More importantly, you should know this: according to my years of research, the role of time guardian can be transferred. If necessary, one person can pass their 'guardian' status to another, along with the associated responsibilities and abilities. This requires a specific ritual and the complete consent of both individuals. If we cannot find a way to remain together, this might be the only means to ensure the time cycle remains intact. Forever yours, Jack"
My hand trembled slightly. Jack had presented an option I had never contemplated—transferring the guardian role to someone else. This could mean we wouldn't be forced apart, but who would assume the guardian's responsibility?
With no time for further contemplation, I gathered several items that resembled spare parts and hastened back to the middle level. Jack and the mayor were no longer there; an assistant informed me they had ascended to the top level to examine the main light.
I rushed to the top to find Jack repairing the lamp while the mayor observed. The storm had reached a terrifying intensity; even within the lighthouse, the thunderous sound of waves crashing against the foundation was deafening.
"Found the parts," I announced, approaching Jack. As I drew near, I whispered: "Read the envelope. We must talk."
Jack nodded almost imperceptibly and continued his repair work. Minutes later, the main light was restored, its powerful beam cutting through the tempest, illuminating the turbulent sea.
"Most professional work, Mr Howard," the mayor remarked approvingly, then gazed at the increasingly ferocious storm. "It appears conditions are deteriorating rapidly. For safety's sake, my men and I ought to return to town."
This was precisely what we had hoped for. Jack displayed appropriate concern: "Indeed, the roads may soon become impassable. I strongly advise immediate departure."
The mayor hesitated, as if there remained more he wished to say, but ultimately decided to leave. "We shall continue this investigation," he warned before departing. "Far too many peculiar occurrences surround this lighthouse."
When the mayor and his entourage finally departed, we exhaled in relief. The wall clock showed 5:15 PM, merely 32 minutes until the critical moment.
"I found this," I immediately showed Jack the letter. "Why didn't you inform me earlier that the guardian role could be transferred?"
Jack sighed deeply: "Because the process has never been properly verified—it's merely theoretical. And who would willingly accept such an extraordinary burden?"
I was about to respond when suddenly I felt an overwhelming dizziness. The entire lighthouse seemed to rotate around me, my vision blurring alarmingly. When I refocused, I beheld a shocking sight—the space inside the lighthouse appeared to be fracturing into multiple overlapping images. One was our current 1925 lighthouse, but through some manner of semi-transparent "window," I simultaneously witnessed two different versions: one dilapidated (unmistakably the ruins from 2025) and another that looked newer (presumably the freshly constructed lighthouse of 1825).
"Jack!" I exclaimed, gesturing toward the phantasmal images.
He saw them too, his face blanching: "The fabric of space-time is becoming unstable. This is occurring earlier than I anticipated."
The images flickered rapidly several times before vanishing, but this phenomenon served as a stark warning—the time rift had begun to widen, and the critical moment might arrive sooner than 5:47.
"We must prepare without delay," Jack declared resolutely. "We cannot afford to wait any longer."
He strode purposefully to a wooden chest, retrieving several implements and an ancient tome that appeared to be some manner of ritual guide. "If we intend to attempt transferring the guardian role, we must complete preparations before the time rift fully manifests."
"But transfer it to whom?" I posed the crucial question.
Jack's expression became extraordinarily determined: "I have devised a plan, but it requires your absolute trust. Now, assist me in positioning the three pocket watches correctly."
As we commenced our final preparations, the storm outside the lighthouse reached its zenith. Lightning forked across the heavens, illuminating the entire bay, thunder shaking every stone of the lighthouse. The sound of waves battering the foundation resembled a giant's footfalls, and the whole world seemed to hold its breath at this moment.
I knew not what would transpire next, but one certainty remained—the legend of the disappearing lighthouse keepers was about to acquire a new chapter, and Jack and I would forevermore be woven into its fabric.