In the Seafront, where the fog slipped into the shops like a cat, Lena began her summer internship in the library. She wasn't new here, but from the storm the lighthouse on the headland remained dark, as if offended. Everything smelled of salt and paper, and the shelves in the reading room were browsed by a draught like an old chronicle. Monday brought a box of gifts, in which lay a rusty nautical journal and a flat jar of sand. On the cover of the journal someone had burned a mark resembling a ring with a cut, like a heraldic wound. Lena opened it carefully and found a map of the harbour with a note on it: Where the bell is silent, the bottom speaks. In the evening she went to the marina, where Kacper, a classmate and son of the petty officer, was bustling about by the boats. They were reviewing the map on deck when the wind rustled in the shrouds like a choir, completely out of August. Kacper muttered that the bell from the Shipwreck Chapel was silent from the storm, and that at night someone gives signs by light. They call him the Night Signaller, though no one has seen the face or knows the reason. They only planned to see the chapel at low tide because the map showed stone steps under the north pier. Lena took a jar, as something like a shell glinted in the sand, and a torch made of armoured plastic. As they crossed the empty beach, the ground vibrated deafeningly, as if an iron heart were rolling beneath it. On the wall by the chapel they saw an engraved diary mark, fresh, still white from the salt. Beneath the platform, between the seaweed, they found a flap with a padlock, and above them hung a cracked bell. A thin wire dangled from its tongue, disappearing into the water like a vein in the darkness of the harbour. The jar in the backpack suddenly warmed and trembled, and sand began to form signs. Lena spilled it on the step; the grains formed a ring, and a lantern flashed from the sea. A single crash sounded in the silence, though the bell did not move, and the clapper gave way on its own. A chill and the smell of ozone came from the darkness, and three short, quick flashes answered them from below. Kacper pressed the torch three times in response, and the wire at the bell vibrated like a string. An old archivist's phone hissed from Lena's backpack, although it had been discharged for a month. The coordinates of the map flashed on the screen and the sentence that was missing: Don't go down alone. Before they had time to step back, something lightly touched Lena's shoulder, cool as water after a storm. When she turned her head, she saw next to her a mark in the sand, just drawn by someone's invisible hand.