Even before dark, the wind carried the smell of salt and rust over the bay. Above the cliff, on the edge of a village with the graceful name of Zatokowa, stood a lighthouse that had not been lit for years. The concrete had gone grey like a faded pearl, and the copper dome had wrinkled from the wind and time. No one cared for it anymore since a modern beacon took over. All that was left were the stories of the watchman who knew the sea better than maps, and the cracks from the last winter storm when the waves almost reached the viewing platform. Lena was fourteen years old and had hair so light that it became almost white from salt during storms. Igor, a year older, never parted with his backpack stuffed with tools, half of which he never managed to use. They were siblings, though their silent rivalry resembled the skirmishes of two captains on a shared deck. - 'Look,' Lena pointed her finger at the dark top of the lighthouse. - It's flashing again. Short, long, short... There's no law, after all, there's been no electricity there for years. - Maybe someone is tuning a drone with a light - muttered Igor, but he was already unfastening a small radio receiver of his own making from his belt. It looked like a soap box with a thin antenna sticking out of it and a knob made from a jar cap. - Either... or it was someone inside. Last night Lena woke up because a regular flash came through the curtains. It didn't take Igor long to persuade her to go out in the morning. Especially since they had come across a yellowed plan of the lighthouse in the library a week ago. In the margin someone had drawn in crayon a narrow corridor leading under the cliff, signed: "service". None of the adults believed that such a thing really existed. - 'Those old plans were often made just in case,' said the mayor, waving his hand. - Now it's all buried. But a storm two days ago had scraped a chunk of clay off the cliff. By the shore, strange beams and a rope had floated out of the seaweed. And the lighthouse - the lantern was flashing. They followed a path that wound around the edge of the ground like a dark green ribbon. Down below, foam rumbled, riffling in the grooves of the rocks. The boulders looked like giant skulls; seagulls shouted tra-la-la over them in warning tones. Lena adjusted the strap of her climbing helmet. Igor counted the snap hooks in his mind and looked around as if measuring distances with a surveyor's eye. - We have rope, we have torches, we have common sense - he listed. - And you know what else? - He pulled a small notebook out of his pocket. - A notebook to jot down silly ideas. Just in case. In front of the lighthouse gate was an old metal sign: ENTRY FORBIDDEN. The letters were scratched by the wind and the corner of the sign was bitten by rust. The padlock hung, proudly too large, as if guarding a secret it can no longer guard. Igor looked at the map in his notebook, then at the rocky bluff just beside the wall. A storm had torn away a patch of scrub and revealed a gap one shoulder wide. - 'This must be the service one,' Lena whispered. - Can you see the rails? Indeed, two thin, rusty strips of metal were poking out of the gloom, like a fragment of forgotten tracks. They led from the edge of the cliff into the darkness beneath the foundations of the lighthouse. The sand there was harder and wetter, as if the breath of the sea had just cooled. - 'Watch out for heads,' Igor warned and slipped into the gap first. - And keep the torch low so as not to be blinded by the reflection. The world immediately became dense and cool. The walls were rough and pleasantly dry, a mixture of metal and fumes that must have impregnated the rock long ago hung in the air. Droplets dripped somewhere in the depths, measuring time more evenly than a clock. - Do you hear? - Lena knelt down, pressing her hand against the rails. They felt a slight tremor, almost imaginary. Then a single crackling sound came from Igor's receiver. One, two. A pause. A series of short signals, like knocking against a pipe. - This is no coincidence. - Short, short, short, long, long.... - Igor was arranging dashes and dots in his head, counting with his breath. - 'If that's what I'm thinking of, then someone's transmitting in the simplest way possible.' - The receiver chimed quietly, the gain went up and the crackles became clearer. - I heard it at camp, remember? - He added in a half-hearted voice. - 'I'm not sure, but I think... I think it's the letter P. - P? Like 'help'?" - Lena herself exaggerated her whispering, as if the walls had ears. - 'Or "pass the caramels",' smiled Igor crookedly, but only with half a face. - We'll see if they repeat it. The corridor turned gently. The black shapes of bats, hanging like folded umbrellas, glimmered in the torches. Far away, somewhere in front of them, a pale light appeared, spilling out like one indistinct blur. It no longer flashed, but pulsed with an even pulse, as if someone had covered the lamp with their hand and uncovered it steadily. - When was the last time someone walked this way? - Lena looked at the ground. The sole imprinted in the mud looked fresh, no rain had blurred it. - Two, maybe three people. One smaller one. She kept close to the wall. - Or tried to hold on to it - Igor corrected. - Look, here's a trace of a displaced hand. - He moved his fingertips over the burn. - And this? - He touched a mark carved into the rock: a circle with a bird with its wings spread. Underneath, someone had scratched out the abbreviation: 'S.S.'. - Vulture Rock - Lena smiled briefly, but something trembled in her eyes. That had been the name of the cliff before the Gulf appeared in the official papers. Her grandmother used to say it when she recounted how she used to carry soup in a jar to the lighthouse when she was young. When they arrived at the branch, an ammunition box with scuffed letters lay next to an iron cart with a wooden bottom. Inside - just coils of cable, a soldering iron, a pocket torch and, more strangely, a fresh sheet of paper with a handprint in grease. Someone wasn't just here. Someone was working here. - 'I don't like it,' Igor said, but there was a note of the same curiosity in his voice that made him unscrew the remote controls. - Who leaves a soldering iron in a place like this? - The one who didn't have time to take it - replied Lena. - Or he had to run away quickly. The signals flowed from the receiver again, shorter now, as if the sender was losing patience or strength. Igor squirmed in concentration. - P... O... M... - he whispered as the dots and dashes made sense. - I'm not playing around. Someone is really asking for help. - So let's go,' Lena decided, before anxiety had time to enter her knees. She attached a snap hook to the secure rope they had strung through a steel bolt in the wall. - 'I'm leading, you watch the signal. The tunnel narrowed and descended lower, at an angle too steep to walk with confidence. It was getting slippery under his boots. You could smell the salty breath of the waves, as if the sea was pulling the air right into the heart of the rock. A steel door with a round peephole, as armoured as a ship's hatch, was clear at the front. Their torchlight was reflected in the peephole - two small suns on a black background. - 'If it's locked, we're going back for Maks,' burbled Igor, although they both knew that their friend's brother was hard to get out of the house anyway without the promise of pizza. - Sure. After Maks and after a summer in which we don't waste chances," replied Lena, lowering her voice. She slipped her hands into her gloves and pushed open the door. To their surprise, it gave way with a groan, as if it hadn't been closed since yesterday, not for decades. The smell of oil hit their faces, warm and fresh. Beyond the door stretched a room so long that the torches did not reach the wall. The ceiling was supported by iron arches, cables hung between them like tense lianas. To the left stood a row of ancient batteries, some huddled against the wall with dust blankets. On the right - a tabletop with tools spread out. In the middle - a drafting table. Above it, a lamp, the one they could see from the cliff, pulsed quietly, powered by something they didn't understand. On the wall hung a map of the coast from a time when there was no pier and the sand had a different course. Someone had corrected the shape of the cliff with a pencil, drawn corridors like veins. By one of the side tunnels someone had written today's date in chalk. Beneath it - two names: LENA and IGOR. The letters were fresh and had not had time to fall off. Lena felt her stomach grow light, like when you unexpectedly fall off a low shelf. - This is some kind of joke - she tried. However, the voice sounded too thick, too serious. - There is no one here. Or there is and he's waiting,' Igor said, but looked over his shoulder. The receiver beeped squeakily and fell silent. Silence filled the room with an elastic wadding. Then a metallic sound cut into it, a thump on the floor - like a key falling. At the back, in a gully in the wall, a grating fell. Behind them. Their only way out of the tunnel turned into thick bars, cold as shot ice. - Who's there? - chuckled Lena, turning her torch towards the sound. From the shadows, near the other end of the room, something moved. First the flash of a yellow cloak, then a profile - tall, hooded, outlined by the lamplight as if cut out of cardboard. A hand, in a dark glove, rose in the air with a gesture that could have been a warning or a greeting. A voice, hoarse but clear, swept through the space like a wave, knowing their names before they could say anything: - It's good that you made it in time. You have very little time.