They flew in low.
The lighthouse wasn't marked on any map.
Even the oldest geo-satellite records showed only ocean in the quadrant Ava gave the pilot. But as they cut beneath a dense ceiling of violet storm clouds, the structure emerged like a ghost from the fog. Not a traditional lighthouse—no spiraling beacon, no weathered bricks—but a thin spire of obsidian glass jutting from a circular platform of stone.
It looked more like a needle stabbing the sky.
Caroline, pale and recovering, stared through the cockpit window. "That thing's not human."
"It was never supposed to be," Ezra muttered.
They circled twice before the platform revealed its entrance. No visible door. Just concentric rings carved with symbols Ava had started seeing in her dreams.
When they stepped off the VTOL and onto the stone, the temperature dropped instantly. Not just cold—stillness. As if they were standing at the edge of time itself. The platform hummed faintly beneath their boots, reacting to their presence.
Ezra glanced at Ava. "You still have the key?"
She held it up. The brass glinted with unnatural light.
Then she stepped forward.
As she crossed the first ring, the surface beneath her shimmered. Symbols ignited. The spire pulsed. With each step, the air grew denser, thicker with memories not her own. Screams. Fires. Cities lost beneath sky-fissures. The veil's cost replaying in every footfall.
At the center of the platform stood an altar.
Not an altar in the religious sense, but a kind of convergence point. A bowl-shaped basin carved from the same black glass as the spire. Within it: nothing. Emptiness so deep it felt like it stared back.
Ava knelt.
She placed the key in the basin.
A soft chime rang out.
Then the world shifted.
The storm clouds above them parted. The sea below froze into stillness. And from the tip of the spire, a light emerged. Not bright, not searing. Just... pure. Like sunlight remembered through tear-filled eyes.
The key melted into the basin.
Ezra dropped to one knee, clutching his head. Caroline staggered back, eyes wide.
"They're here," she whispered.
Ghosts.
Thousands of them.
They stepped from the spire like water from a well. Figures of light and sorrow. Some wore uniforms. Others civilian clothes. Children. Elders. All the lives consumed by the veil. Ava saw them, and for a moment, every scream that had ever echoed inside her was silenced.
One stepped forward.
It was Marin.
His outline flickered, broken at the edges, but his smile was intact. He knelt beside her.
"You found it," he said.
Ava swallowed hard. "Am I dead?"
"Not yet. But you're close."
Behind him, Cassandra appeared. Not the version from the memory, but her true self. Older. Tired. Full of regret.
"This is your last chance," she said. "Once you light the flame, there's no turning back."
Ezra approached slowly, still wincing. "What does it do?"
Cassandra answered him. "It collapses the mirror. Seals the veil permanently. Ends the hunger."
"At what cost?"
Cassandra looked down.
"Your reality."
The word echoed.
Ava stood.
"You mean the fractures stay. The ghosts stay. The veil becomes permanent."
Marin nodded. "But it stops feeding. No more sacrifices. No more breaches. Just a broken world that can heal."
Ezra turned to Ava. "We can find another way."
But Ava shook her head.
"No. This is the only way they can rest."
She reached into the basin.
Her hand closed around the flame.
It wasn't fire. It was a memory. The very first breath of the first child born after the first breach. Pure and untainted.
She held it aloft.
The ghosts sang.
The spire shook.
And then, Ava let go.
The light burst upward. Through the clouds. Through the veil. Through every fracture across the planet. Like a beacon to the lost. A tether for the scattered.
And the veil... closed.
Not with a scream, but a sigh.
The sky cleared.
The ghosts faded.
And Ava collapsed.
---
When she awoke, it was spring.
She lay beneath a tree that had not existed before. Its blossoms were silver.
Ezra sat beside her, older now. Weathered.
Caroline was nowhere in sight.
"How long?" Ava croaked.
"Two years," Ezra replied.
She sat up slowly. The world looked the same, but felt different. The air carried weight. The sun no longer burned so cold.
"Did it work?"
Ezra smiled faintly. "There's been no veil activity since that day. People remember things differently now. Some deny it ever happened. Others call you a myth."
Ava looked up at the silver blossoms.
"And you?"
"I remember."
They sat in silence.
Above them, the sky was whole.
---