The sea in Leeward Bay was the colour of spilled steel, and the waves told their unhurried stories of ships that had long since sailed away. Above the cliff stood the lighthouse - a tall, red-and-white tower with broken glass at the foot and a rusty railing on the upper platform. Locals said it hadn't worked for years. And maybe that's why it could suddenly light up with a milky light at night. Lena, eleven years old, with a checkered notebook, and her older brother Olek, who always carried a pocket knife and a scout whistle, had stared at the flickering glow the previous evening. They were sitting on a wet bench by the marina, their cheeks red from the wind. - Can you see it? - hissed Lena. - Three short, two long, three short again. Olek furrowed his eyebrows. - It looks like a code. Morse code. Only... - he tilted his head, as if trying to hear something in the light. - As if someone didn't have the strength to send a whole word. The next day, as the sun fought the low mist, the siblings set off along a path across the moor. Aunt Mira, who ran the Wave and Shelf guesthouse, waved a kitchen cloth at them. - Just come back for soup before six! - she called out. - And don't push on the rocks, because they're slippery. The lantern rose in front of them with every minute, until at last they smelled old oil, tar and rust. At the foot the door was boarded up with a chain, but the LINK hung droopy, as if someone had just unfastened it and forgotten to fasten it back. On the doorstep lay a paper stat from a newspaper. Someone had written a number on its sides in pencil: 07. - Who else folds paper ships? - muttered Lena, bending down. When she touched the paper, it was damp but not thawed - it must have arrived here recently. - 'Or someone wants us to see it,' said Olek as if he didn't want his voice to fly far with the wind. Behind the door there was silence, that special silence where you can only hear your own heart. The winding, narrow staircase climbed upwards, each step with a different creak. Lena touched the handrail - cool and sticky with salt. Someone had left chalk lines on the wall: short and long, arranged in rows, as if trying to teach something to an invisible student. - 'Look,' whispered Olek, running his finger over the marks. - Here's a "U". Short, long, long. Here's a "W." AND "A." Someone was training... Or left a message for someone to come later. - For us? - snapped Lena out of it, though she immediately regretted it. On the mezzanine floor they found a metal door they didn't remember from any postcard. The letters on the plaque were falling off: "Warehouse-". There was a chill blowing from inside that no summer smells like. Olek pulled the handle. It creaked, but the door did not budge. Someone had tied it from the inside with a thick rope, from which hung a shred of red yarn. - Strange - Olek muttered. - The storeroom should be at the entrance, not here. Above, the stairs turned once more. At the next bend, Lena saw shoe marks in the dust - clear imprints of soles with a star pattern. Small, as if left by someone not much bigger than them. The prints led upwards, then suddenly disappeared, as if the trail had vanished into thin air. - 'I said there was someone here,' Lena whispered. - But where did he go? - Or where was he taken to - replied Olek automatically, and then he felt his sister's gaze. - It was a joke. A stupid joke. At last they arrived under the heavy circular hatch leading to the lighthouse heart. Olek pressed his shoulder, Lena pushed with her shoulder. The hatch let go, the air smeared them with the smell of glass, dust and something sweet, as if someone had spilled syrup. The Fresnel lens looked like a huge glass eye with a thousand eyelids. Everything should have been rusty and dead. Yet there was an oiler on the table, and dark-spotted gloves lying next to it. And a tea cup with a leaf swaying at the bottom. - 'Fresh,' said Lena. - Still warm. Olek put his finger on the mug. - 'Someone was here... today. On the wall someone had unwrapped an old nautical map. A thin red thread ran from the lighthouse to a spot marked with a cross near the 'Silent Reef'. Next to it, in chalk on the glass, someone had written in even handwriting a few words: "Who can hear: come back". The letters were hazy, as if someone had written them with the tip of a glove. Lena stuck her head out of a tilted window onto the gallery. Fog stood over the sea like a curtain. Somewhere far away the buzzing of the old harbour siren sounded, although her aunt said the siren had long been switched off. Its sound came, bounced off the cliffs and entered the siblings' bellies, leaving vibrating circles there. - The hour? - Lena asked. - Aunty ordered... - Seven forty-eight - answered Olek, glancing at his watch. - We'll have another look at the mechanism and then we'll go back. They descended the narrow ladder to a small chamber under the lens. The gears were visible through a crack in the casing. Instead of rust marks - a fresh, thin streak of oil. Olek touched the dial. It did not vibrate, but a low, almost inaudible sound came from underneath, as if the metal recalled the old days. - It shouldn't work," whispered Lena. - It doesn't work," whispered Olek. - Or maybe... not quite. Something rattled. Once. Then three short ones, two long ones, one short one. The tapping did not come from the mechanism. More from the wall. Or from the pipes. - Can you hear it? - Olek moved away from the housing. - It's not a coincidence. It's a code from the thirties... an old warning signal. We learnt it at a gathering, long out of use as everyone switched to new systems. - Who sends it out? - Lena swallowed her saliva. - Mr Teofil? Some kind of joke? - 'Mr Teofil doesn't go up the tower any more,' replied someone from Lena's memory. Indeed, in the morning at the pier the old petty officer merely waved his hand and muttered: "Don't pack up on top. The tower breathes when it shouldn't." They returned to the room with the lens. The wind stirred the canvas with which someone had partially covered the mechanism. On the windowsill lay a small black radio, with the antenna bent at an odd angle. When Lena flicked the switch, the radio beeped. Then something hummed inside it, as if someone was stirring sugar in tea with a spoon. - Hello? - Olek leaned over the microphone. - This is Windward Lighthouse. Who is transmitting? First a crackling sound came from the radio. Then a sound that was not a word, more of an exhalation. The noise formed into syllables. "U-wah-wah...". So quiet it could only have been the sound of waves hitting the rocks. - 'It's someone joking,' Lena said, but she didn't sound like someone who believed her own words. The sun had hidden behind a cloud so dark that for a moment it felt like dusk. A quiet creak sounded somewhere downstairs. It was the chain by the door that had moved again, even though no one had tampered with it. Lena went pale. - We have to go now,' she said. - Now, now, immediately. They took in the sight of the map, the cup, the gloves, as if they wanted to memorise them without touching them. The hatch closed hard over them as they descended to the first platform. The mist, as if it had heard it, crawled up the shafts and weaved in milky spirals. The tapping came back. Three short ones. Two long ones. One short one. Suddenly the lens twitched slightly. It didn't flare - it wasn't yet dark - but it was as if an invisible latch had been switched inside. A damp streak ran down the glass from the centre, stopped at Lena's eye level and left a trail that resembled the letter 'N' for a second. - Did you see? - she mouthed. - It's a vapour - Olek tried. - A stain from the outside. - From the inside - Lena corrected him, because she was sure. And then there was a new sound. Not a tapping. Not a hum. Metallic, slow, patient. The handle of the door to the gallery... moved. Once. Then a second time, as if someone on the other side was checking if the chain would hold. The chain rasped, stretched, and the links tightened like strings. Olek and Lena froze, watching the handle turn another millimetre, and behind the frosted glass something flitting through the mist too fast to be called human.