Lena was fourteen years old and had absolute hearing, which was sometimes troublesome. She moved into Birch in August, just below the old lighthouse on the cliff. She hosted a school podcast in the evenings and counted flashes from her window at night. For a week the lighthouse had been flashing at 9.17pm: three short, two long, one short. It sounded like a code, but the Morse alphabet did not match the rhythm. She heard the same pattern in her headphones, recording the noise of the night breakwater. Oskar, Lena's younger cousin, said it was just the wind in the cracks. But when they came under the lighthouse, the wind smelled of metal and peppermint. A REMONT sign hung on the door and the chain held the lock in angry silence. Nevertheless, something was ticking persistently inside, like a clock without hands. Lena noticed a cinema ticket slipped into the slot, with today's date on it. On the back, a pencil had left a sentence: the mountain is silent. Listen below, Lena. They walked around the building to the service tunnel that fishermen used during storms. It was dark, damp, and smelled of tar, salt and old rope. Lena walked ahead, counting her steps according to the flashes: three, two, one, over and over again. On the walls, someone had left chalk arrows and dots like notes. The recorder in his pocket flashed, as if catching a signal, though there was no range. Somewhere above, a footstep rolled, and drops dripped according to the rhythm. The steel door to the engine room stood ajar, exhaling a chill like breath. Inside, gears tinkled and a table was covered by a map of the edges with wheels. Next to it, someone had annotated the hours at each mark, as if planning the blinkers. A thick wire disappeared under the grille, buzzing with the same three-component rhythm. Lena turned on the recording, and Oskar whispered that it was probably a high school graduation prank. Then they saw Lena's photo from the school website, pinned above the lectern. Underneath it, the caption said in ink: You hear, so come alone. The gears suddenly stopped and the silence tightened like a hood over the ears. A single tap was answered from the floor, and the hidden trapdoor began to tremble. The bolt moved of its own accord, and a whisper sounded in the gap: You have come at last.