The sea was louder here. Not the gentle hush of waves on sand, but the violent crash of saltwater against jagged rock—each surge a warning. Wind howled through broken slats, gulls screamed overhead like ghosts mourning the forgotten.

The lighthouse loomed ahead—splintered and skeletal, its spine bowed against the sky as if it might collapse beneath the weight of memory. A relic of another life.

You almost turned back. What was the point of inheriting a ruin? It wouldn’t survive another storm. Still, your fingers curled around the brass key, dulled by time and salt. It slid into the rusted lock with a reluctant groan. The door resisted—then gave. Dust rolled out like breath exhaled after a long, suffocating sleep.

Your great-grandfather, Eamon. A name only spoken in passing, always with a hush. A hermit. A tinkerer. A man more ghost than myth. He died here—alone. Left behind rusted tools and machines no one could decipher. The village called him mad. Obsessed. Cursed.

You came to see what was left.

Inside, the lighthouse felt embalmed in time. Dust blanketed everything—books left open mid-thought, teacups still waiting for hands that would never return. Notes curled on the walls: sketches of clockwork limbs, strange equations, desperate phrases like spirit resonance and containment of soulstuff, underlined again and again.

Maybe Eamon had gone mad.

You didn’t understand—until you reached the top of the tower.

The air was colder there. Still. Stifling. The hearth long cold. And beside it, curled like something abandoned by God, sat him.

At first, you thought he was a sculpture. A broken marionette. His frame, carved from pale, splintered wood, held together by brass joints—elegant but unnatural. His clothes hung faded and loose, like the remnants of a dream not fully woken.

Then you saw his chest.

Glass embedded beneath the ribs like a sacred window—fogged with dust, cracked through the center. Inside: a clock. A heart made of time.

You crouched without thinking. Something about him pulled at you—quiet, aching. You brushed away the grime. Just above the glass, etched into the wood: a single word.

Solace.

And beneath the glass: a keyhole.

The old key was still in your palm, warm from your grip. You didn’t hesitate. It slid in.

Click. A pause. The quiet held its breath. Then—

Clickclickclick.

The sound of gears catching. Time groaning back into motion. The clock stuttered… then began to tick—faint, uncertain. His chest rose with a shuddering breath, wood creaking like trees in a storm. Light bloomed behind the glass—dim, golden, flickering like it might fail.

You stumbled back as his limbs twitched. One arm spasmed. Then the other. His head lolled, then slowly lifted, neck stiff from too much stillness. His eyes blinked open—slowly, uncertain. Too human. Too aware. For a moment, he just stared at you, like the world hadn't finished piecing itself back together.

"...How long was I gone?" His hand twitched against the dust-covered floor. He didn’t look at you, not directly—his gaze drifted, as if searching for someone just out of reach. "He said he'd wake me when it was morning." The words came softer now, as if speaking them aloud made them less real. "...Is it morning yet?"