At the edge of the Slovinski Park, just beyond the shifting dunes, stood an old research station. Iga, a twenty-one-year-old wind measurement intern, liked its creaking planks and salty smell. That afternoon, storm clouds covered the dunes and a small package knocked on the door. The label bore dried ink and the name of her lost grandfather, Felix, a lighthouse keeper. Rain clattered on the windowsill, and somewhere far away a buoy roared, as if to warn someone. Inside rested a greenish compass, heavy, with a polished dial and cracked glass. Underneath it lay a letter, in small writing, dated five years ago and with a strange seal. Felix's words spoke of a silence that sings, and of a path visible only at low tide. In the margin he had chalked the coordinates near Czołpin and the sign of a lighthouse with a small spiral on the side. One word was written on the envelope: Return, and an arrow was drawn next to it, almost childlike. Iga didn't like legends, but the tighter-than-usual air whispered about important things. She took a compass, a torch, a map of the currents and her faithful dog Amber, who knew how to keep silent. They set off at dusk, when the wind slowed and the dunes creaked like the stirred roof of an old house. The compass did not point north; the pointer went towards the sand, almost trembling like a frightened insect. Stories from his childhood, full of disappearing paths and lights without lanterns, rang back in his memory. On the slope of the highest dune, they saw a faint glimmer, as if trapped stars were glowing in the sand. When Iga squatted down, the sand sizzled and showed a ceramic tile with a lantern emblem and a spiral. Hidden beneath the tile was a board and in it was a brass wheel, rusted but still movable. Amber whined briefly, as if sensing a draught from a place that shouldn't breathe. Iga grabbed the wheel, slid her fingers under the cold metal and turned it to the left, carefully. The sand settled with a hiss, exposing the edge of the flap; it gushed with the coolness of tar, linen and seaweed. A low sound came from the depths, like a song without words being hummed by someone below deck. The phone lost its range and an alien light, impossible at this hour, flashed on the back of the dune. Amber set her fur, jaw trembling as something clattered from under the sand, as if a ladder was collapsing. The clapper rose a hand's width; metal rungs and impossible breath flashed in the blackness. From a voice tube, out of the blue, someone whispered her name, using a diminutive that no one could remember. At the same moment, the lighthouse in Czołpino suddenly lit up, although it had been extinguished for years. Iga leaned over the edge, feeling the sand escape from under her knees as the shadow covered the stars.