🌊 Salt in the Wind Episode 8: The Lighthouse Keeper's Secret
The lighthouse stood like a sentinel at the edge of the world, its white stone streaked with salt and time. Ren arrived just after dawn, the sky still bruised with sleep. Aleksy was already there, leaning against the railing, a thermos in hand.
"You came," Aleksy said, voice soft.
Ren nodded. "Wouldn't miss it."
They climbed the spiral staircase in silence, boots echoing against iron steps. At the top, the sea stretched endlessly, a canvas of gray and blue. Aleksy handed Ren the thermos—black coffee, strong and bitter.
"I used to come here as a kid," Aleksy said. "My grandfather was the keeper. He said the lighthouse didn't just guide ships—it kept secrets."
Ren raised an eyebrow. "What kind of secrets?"
Aleksy pulled a small brass key from his coat pocket. "The kind that don't want to be found."
He led Ren to a narrow door tucked behind a rusted generator. The key turned with a reluctant click. Inside was a cramped room, lined with shelves. Dust floated in the air like memory.
Aleksy pointed to a wooden box. "He told me never to open it. Said it belonged to someone who vanished."
Ren knelt and lifted the lid. Inside were photographs—black and white, faded. Aleksander, younger, smiling. Masaru beside him, hand resting lightly on Aleksander's shoulder. A notebook lay beneath them, bound in leather.
Ren opened it. The pages were filled with sketches—waves, faces, hands reaching. And words.
"If the world won't remember us, the sea will."
Aleksy sat beside him, eyes scanning the pages. "They were in love."
Ren nodded. "And they were afraid."
One sketch showed the cave, the one Ren had found. Another showed the cabin. But one drawing was unfamiliar—a tree, twisted and bare, with initials carved into its bark: A + M.
Ren traced the letters. "Do you know this place?"
Aleksy frowned. "There's a tree like that near the old train tracks. No one goes there anymore."
They packed the box carefully, reverently. Aleksy locked the room again, slipping the key into Ren's hand.
"You keep it," he said. "You're the one uncovering all this."
Ren hesitated. "We're doing it together."
Aleksy smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "I'm just following your lead."
They descended the stairs slowly, the wind picking up. At the base, Aleksy paused.
"There's something else," he said. "My grandfather kept a journal. He mentioned a Japanese boy who came every summer. Said he was looking for someone."
Ren's breath caught. "Masaru."
Aleksy nodded. "He never stopped searching."
Ren looked out at the sea. "Neither will we."
They walked back to town, the box between them. The streets were quiet, the town still waking. Ren felt the weight of history pressing against his ribs.
At the hostel, Ren spread the contents across his desk. He pinned the sketches beside the letters, the photographs beside the journal entries. A tapestry of love and loss.
He stared at the drawing of the tree. Something about it felt urgent.
He grabbed his camera and headed for the tracks.
The path was overgrown, the rails rusted. Birds scattered as he walked. And then he saw it—the tree, twisted and bare, just like the sketch.
He approached slowly. The bark was scarred, but the initials remained.
A + M
Ren touched them, heart pounding. Beneath the carving was something else—faint, almost invisible. A symbol. A wave.
He photographed it, then noticed something buried at the base of the tree. A tin box, rusted shut.
He pried it open. Inside was a letter, sealed in wax. The paper was brittle, the ink faded.
"If you've found this, then you've found us. We were here. We loved. We were real."
Ren sat beneath the tree, the wind whispering through the branches.
He whispered back, "I believe you."