The wind carried with it the taste of salt and something else, a metallic aftertaste, as if the sea were sharpening knives against the shore. The tall grasses hissed under the pressure of the gusts, and the moving dunes creaked as if they were a huge sand instrument. Above the line of pine forest loomed the shape of the Stilo lighthouse - a dark silhouette against the pale sky. - 'I told you it would be empty here,' snarled Nina, kneeling on the cool sand. She was fourteen years old, her hair tied up in a high ponytail and the pockets of her blouse stuffed to the brim with seashells that she didn't need at all, but "maybe they will come in handy". - 'It's empty in your bag,' muttered Igor, fifteen years old and with a brand-new multitool clipped to his belt. - And on a budget. And it's an hour and a half one way to the lighthouse. Grandma Hela promised pancakes, remember? Instead of answering, Nina pushed away a thin layer of sand with her hand. Something flashed. It was not a shard of glass or a bottle cap. A small, round object peeked out from under the grains like a coin from a story about treasure hunters. It was heavier than she had expected, cold despite the sun. - It's not a bottle cap,' she said triumphantly. She looked at the find. A brass disc with an engraving: a wind rose, a row of numbers around the circumference and tiny letters that at first looked like scratches left by a seagull's claws. She squinted her eyes. The inscriptions were carefully carved: "54°45′ N 17°44′ E" and underneath: "Listen to the wind, set at 107". - 'Coordinates,' Igor remarked immediately, dragging his finger along the edge of the disc. - More or less... here. - He waved his hand towards the north-east, where a beacon looked out from behind the pines. - And this at 107 degrees? - He glanced at Nia. - Sounds like a course. Or... a trap for imaginative tourists. - This is said by a boy who keeps a tool with fifteen functions at his belt,' Nina replied and stood up, sifting sand through her fingers. - Come on. Let's check. On the way she counted her steps out of habit. She liked to organise the world into equal numbers, even though she was losing her hair elastics at the same time. Igor checked the GPS on his phone, but the pines were doing their own thing - the range was jumping and the wind was shaking in the needles like a whispering mob. Grandma Hela lived in a small house in Sasin, with a veranda that always smelled of lavender and fried pancakes. There was a sideboard full of old plates in the living room, and a map on the wall. Not the kind from a modern atlas. Green spots, cream paper, edges rounded from time. On the top left-hand corner in tiny, squeaky writing, someone had once added: "Listen only to the wind. Not people." - Grandma, who wrote this? - asked Nina, entering the house with sand in her shoes. - 'Your great-grandfather,' replied Hela, without taking her eyes off the frying pan. - 'He used to say that whenever the sea stood up. And now shoes on the doormat. And wash your hands. What have you got? Nina put the disc on the table. Her grandmother took it in her fingers, the way one takes a strange chick in one's hands - gently but surely. - Is it coming? - muttered Hela. - I've seen a lot of roses too. This one... - she turned the disk so that the light fell on the engraving. - This one is one I don't remember. Who did you get this direction number from? - From the disc. - Igor sat down opposite. - '107. And the co-ordinates almost like a lighthouse, just a bit deep. - The lighthouse can be capricious - smiled the grandmother, putting down the disc. - Especially when the wind changes its voice. But you won't make lighthouse soup. Eat up. In the evening they laid out a map and a candle on the table, as if they had determined top-down that smartphones were too easy. The circle matched the circle drawn around the lighthouse, as if it was tailor-made for them. The inscription "set at 107" kept persistently returning to Nini in his mind, mixed with the quiet moan of the wind coming from between the window frames. - Maybe this is some kind of game? - pondered Igor. - The kind of geocaching of old. - He moved the puck by millimetres and the shadows danced on the map. - Or... someone wanted someone else to hit a particular spot when it was blowing from a certain direction. See: if the wind is coming from the north-west and you position yourself at 107 degrees, you'll be walking along a forest wall, not open sand. Better. - 'You're the one doing the orienteering, not me,' Nina replied, but you could hear something more than a joke in her voice. - 'We'll go tomorrow. We'll see if the lighthouse is capricious. The next day the wind had really changed. There wasn't less of it - it just sounded different from the day before than usual. It wasn't whistling; it was roaring in the dunes, and then suddenly silent, as if someone was hushing it. The thin branches of the bushes bumped against each other, making the forest an invisible resonance box. The sky was bright and sharp, as if someone had wiped it with glass. - Can you see? - pointed Nina to the compass needle on the app on her phone. - One hundred and seven. Seemingly nothing. And I got goosebumps. - It's because you lost your hat,' muttered Igor, but he also sped up. The path led along the pines, the needles creaked under their shoes. When they emerged from the forest, the lantern stood even higher than yesterday - it hadn't actually grown, but up close it seemed more deliberate and less romantic. Red cap on top, white walls, concrete foundations. On the gate hung a yellow sign: 'Facility under renovation. No entry allowed." - So that's the end of the tour," said Igor with a relief that was meant to feign sanity. - Or the beginning - replied Nina quietly. What stopped her was not bravado. It was a buzzing. Quiet, barely audible under the pressure of the wind, but persistent - as if something inside was playing a single sound that refused to ring out. - Can you hear it? - Nina tilted her head. - The transformer? - Igor squirmed and slid his hands deeper into his pockets. - 'Maybe they left something on. Let's go... It sounded more like a question than a proposal. Nina clutched the puck in her hand. Since yesterday it had become some kind of strange addition to herself. It was pleasantly heavy, in the way that sometimes good decisions can be hard but right. - Two steps. We'll look through the net and then go back, okay? - she muttered. On the side, the fence didn't reach the wall - the sandy ground had probably settled after the recent rain. They squeezed through the gap being careful of the protruding wires. Up close, the lighthouse smelled of metal and old grease. The door was locked with an iron chain, but by its frame, closer to the ground, there was a small mark, at first glance meaningless: a coin-sized wind rose, almost grated lines, as if someone had scratched at the plaster with a hard object. Nina crouched down. - 'That's the same one you have on your disc,' Igor remarked, leaning over her shoulder. She pressed the brass against the stone, touched the mark with the disc. Something clicked - quietly, but as clearly as the reflex of the end of a sentence. The disc fitted into the drawing with a perennial certainty, as if it had waited a lifetime for this place. Igor held his breath. - 'I don't like it,' he said, which was fair enough. - I don't like it very much. - And I do - whispered Nina, although her heart was already higher than usual. - 'Just... let's just see what it did. The hollow panel next to the door vibrated. First a little, like a creaking drawer. Then enough so that sand slipped into the crack and stuck, making a creaking sound. A chill flowed from inside, not the usual kind, from the shade. More like someone had opened a fridge full of night air from the open sea. The buzzing from the lighthouse changed by half a tone, and the wind seemed to stop, listening. - Nina - Igor stretched out his hand as if he could stop the whole phenomenon with it. - If it's there... - Whatever - she finished for him. The gap widened. Something milky shimmered in the twilight, for a moment like a reflection of light on water. High above their heads, something blinked in the lantern. The glass turned a fraction, like the slow breathing of a giant, though no electrician stood by the board, no clock beat. Nina felt the puck in her hand suddenly become warm. So much so that she almost dropped it. - Do you hear that? - Igor pointed to a hook next to the door, on which hung an old security helmet that had been moved aside. A small, forgotten radio was stuck inside it. The red light glowed as if it had just received energy. It crackled inside, like an old man grunting away, and suddenly a voice rang out, distorted but not accidental: - Point one hundred and seven activated. Do not leave your position. Nina and Igor looked at each other and then at the gap, which widened further and further. The sound of footsteps began to converge from the top of the metal stairs. At first single thumps, then faster and faster. And it didn't sound like the echo of their own breaths. - 'Someone's up there,' whispered Igor. Nina squeezed the puck tighter. The crevice in the disc they had moved suddenly stood in half motion, as if waiting for something, for someone. And the sound of footsteps - almost here. Just outside the door a surprisingly close, low voice rang out: - Don't move.