Silver Bay was falling asleep early as the season ended and the wind tore flags on the pier. Maya, seventeen, was returning from a run when the lighthouse blinked a second time for no reason. It was officially automatic and shone regularly, without whimpering, like a clock in the headmaster's office. This double flashing resembled a sign, maybe a warning, maybe a request she didn't understand. There were still pine needles on the sand, and the waves sounded like an old, disjointed organ. The next morning she brought to school a small receiver she had soldered together in the garage after a night out. The radio whistled, catching hums and short crackles until it hit a rhythm like footsteps. Kamil, the only one in the class with a sailing patent, whispered: "It's Morse. Give it louder." Dashes and dots formed in a sine wave of crackles: B-3, then letters like initials. Maja jotted it all down in the margin of her textbook and suddenly saw her own name on the screen. She didn't have the internet connected, and the sign moved like a calm, sure hand. After lessons, they went to the lighthouse, where there was an old lighthouse keeper's shack with a rusty sign. The windows were boarded up, but the wicket creaked and let go after the first push. To the left, under the ivy, they found a letterbox with a "B-3" sticker and a wire seal. Kamil glanced at it uncertainly. "If this is a joke, it's quite sophisticated." The seal had broken under the penknife, and inside lay a brass key with the letters "G.I.". Maja knew those letters. They were in the archive book of the port, next to the name Ignatowicz. "Gabriel Ignatowicz, radio officer," she said quietly. "He went missing in ninety-seven, during a storm in the roadstead." Kamil swallowed his saliva. "Is that your family?" "No, but I know the story from the museum." They returned to the school before dark, as the B-3 signage was visible by the basement switchboards. The doorman Olędzki was already closing the wing, but nodded when he saw the card of the technical circle. The staircase down was cool, the walls were covered with tattered posters from the old school academy. At the end of the corridor a plaque gleamed: "B-3 - Archives". The lock looked archaic, perfect for a key. Maja inserted the brass spearhead and turned it slowly; the metal groaned, the musty smell bubbled up. At the same moment, the school radio crackled overhead and a second light came on. The speaker whispered a string of dots and dashes, clearer than on the beach: "M-A-J-A, N-I-E S-A-M-A." Kamil reflexively looked behind him. A reply, shorter and impatient, flashed in the dark end of the tunnel. Maja grabbed the archive door handle as something on the other side knocked three times.