🎬 Salt in the Wind Episode 2: Echoes in the Brick
Ren returned to the lighthouse the next morning, unsure if he was welcome. The sky was overcast, the sea restless. He carried his camera, the journal, and a quiet hope that Aleksy hadn't shut the door for good.
The door was unlocked.
Inside, the air was cool and still. Aleksy was seated at the table, sketching with charcoal, his brow furrowed. He didn't look up when Ren entered.
"I brought coffee," Ren said, holding out a paper cup.
Aleksy glanced at it, then took it silently. "Thanks."
Ren sat across from him, watching the lines take shape on the paper. It was a face—angular, soft-eyed, familiar.
"Is that Aleksander?" Ren asked.
Aleksy nodded. "I've never seen a photo of him until yesterday. But I've dreamed of him since I was a kid."
Ren leaned forward. "What kind of dreams?"
Aleksy hesitated. "He's always standing by the railing. Looking out. Sometimes he turns to me and says something, but I can never hear it."
Ren opened the journal. "My grandfather wrote about dreams too. Said he saw Aleksander in his sleep for years after the war."
Aleksy's hand paused. "What was his name?"
"Masaru Nakamura."
Aleksy repeated it softly, like tasting a memory. "My grandmother used to mention a Japanese boy. Said he came here during the war. Helped her brother escape something."
Ren's pulse quickened. "That must've been Masaru."
Aleksy looked at him. "Why did he never come back?"
Ren swallowed. "He tried. But the war ended, and everything changed. He was told Aleksander had died."
Aleksy's eyes darkened. "He didn't die in battle. He disappeared. My family never found out what happened."
Ren opened the journal to a page marked with a pressed flower. "Masaru wrote: I waited by the sea. I waited until the wind stopped. But it never did."
Aleksy stared at the words, then stood abruptly. "Come with me."
They climbed the spiral staircase to the top of the lighthouse. The wind was stronger here, whipping Ren's hair into his eyes. Aleksy pointed to the rocks below.
"There's a cave down there. It's only visible during low tide. My grandmother said Aleksander used to hide there."
Ren peered down. The rocks were jagged, the waves crashing violently. "Can we get to it?"
"Not today," Aleksy said. "But soon."
They stood in silence, the sea roaring beneath them. Ren turned to Aleksy. "Do you think he's still out there? Somewhere?"
Aleksy didn't answer. His eyes were fixed on the horizon. "I think some people never leave. Not really."
Ren took a photo—Aleksy silhouetted against the gray sky, wind in his coat. It mirrored the old photo almost perfectly.
Aleksy turned. "Don't romanticize me."
Ren lowered the camera. "I'm not. I'm documenting something real."
Aleksy's gaze lingered. "You're different."
Ren smiled faintly. "So are you."
They descended the stairs slowly. At the bottom, Aleksy paused. "There's something I want to show you."
He led Ren to a small room behind the lighthouse—dusty, filled with old boxes and faded maps. He pulled out a wooden chest and opened it.
Inside were letters. Dozens of them. All addressed to Aleksander.
Ren picked one up. The handwriting was elegant, slanted. "Who wrote these?"
"My grandmother," Aleksy said. "She kept writing to him after he disappeared. Never mailed them."
Ren read a line aloud: I saw the boy again today. He looked like you. But he didn't smile.
Aleksy sat on the floor, legs crossed. "She believed he was still alive. Somewhere."
Ren looked at him. "Do you?"
Aleksy shrugged. "I believe in echoes. In things that repeat until they're resolved."
Ren placed the letter back gently. "Then maybe we're here to finish what they started."
Aleksy met his eyes. "Or to rewrite it."
That night, Ren developed the photo he'd taken. In the dim light of the hostel's bathroom, the image came to life—Aleksy, windblown, solemn, beautiful. He pinned it to the wall above his bed, beside the old photo.
Two boys. Two generations. One story.
He couldn't sleep.
The wind howled outside, rattling the windows. Ren opened the journal again, flipping to the final entry.
If I could go back, I'd stand beside him. I'd say the words I never said. I'd let the wind carry them, even if he couldn't hear.
Ren closed the book, heart heavy. He thought of Aleksy—his silence, his art, his eyes that held storms.
The next morning, Ren returned to the lighthouse. Aleksy was outside, repairing a railing. He looked up as Ren approached.
"You're persistent," he said.
Ren smiled. "So are you."
Aleksy gestured to the tools. "Want to help?"
Ren nodded, rolling up his sleeves. They worked side by side, the rhythm of hammering and sanding filling the air. It was quiet, but not uncomfortable.
After an hour, Aleksy spoke. "I used to come here as a kid. Pretend I was the keeper. That I was guarding something important."
Ren glanced at him. "You are."
Aleksy didn't respond. But his shoulders relaxed.
They took a break, sitting on the steps with mugs of tea. Ren pulled out his camera, showing Aleksy the photo.
Aleksy studied it. "You captured something."
Ren waited.
Aleksy looked up. "I don't know what it is. But it feels familiar."
Ren hesitated. "Can I take more? Of you?"
Aleksy raised an eyebrow. "Why?"
Ren shrugged. "Because you're part of the story now."
Aleksy nodded slowly. "Then tell it right."
Ren lifted the camera. Aleksy didn't pose—he just looked out at the sea, eyes distant, wind in his hair.
Click.
Ren lowered the camera. "Thank you."
Aleksy stood. "Come back tomorrow. The tide will be low. We can reach the cave."
Ren's heart leapt. "I'll be here."
As he walked back to the hostel, Ren felt something shift. Not just in the story—but in himself.
The wind was strong. But it didn't feel like it was pushing him away.
It felt like it was guiding him forward.