The town of Rozewie smelled of salt even inside the converted railway station. It is now the Town Library, and I was helping my mother with the renovations. Under a bench with cast iron legs, I found a brass key with an engraved anchor. The key matched anything we had in the inventory of rooms and cupboards. Oskar, my cousin, claimed it looked like a souvenir from the lighthouse. I had been collecting lost things since I was a child because I believed they said something. After dark, the library creaked as if the carriages were still rolling down the tracks. We looked through donor books and an old loan log from before the platforms closed. In the margin of one page someone had written: Put out the lantern before the memory goes out. I thought of the lantern on the escarpment, now closed for fifteen years. That evening, the wind carried its quiet, metallic hum all the way up to the ceiling. Mum let us stay an hour longer, as long as we didn't go down to the basement. In the morning we discovered that the key opened an inconspicuous cupboard in the Railway Archives. Inside lay a brulion from 1999, full of sketches and short slogans. On the cover someone had drawn an anchor with an eye in the middle, like a seal. At the end of the list was a mysterious name: L. Dobrowolska, with my initial. In addition to a map of the tunnels, there was a diagram of a lighthouse, with a hidden descent under the foundation. The pages smelled damp, and the corners were yellowed from human touch. The lights in the library blinked and my phone vibrated for no reason. An unknown contact wrote: Lighthouse Keeper: Stop rummaging, you have one night left. Footsteps sounded behind the bookcases, although the front door was closed. We ducked into the storeroom, smelling the increasingly intense smell of wet salt. A torch beam glided along the dark corridor, stopping at the cellar door. The footsteps froze, and then we heard metal scraping against metal, very slowly. We picked up the brouhaha and the key and followed the light, silently. The stairs led down until the cool water touched our shoes. Two points of phosphorescent, restless, pale glow danced on the surface of the water. Someone was humming an old song, and the walls responded with a deafening damp echo. - Can you hear it? - whispered Oskar, squeezing my elbow until it hurt. At the end of the tunnel waited a rusty manhole with an anchor and an eye. On the other side, someone knocked three times.