A faded letter, a hidden clue, and an old lighthouse pull four friends into a mystery that could change the rest of their holiday.
The sun was sinking into the sea, turning the water copper and gold, when Lena, Michal, Zuza, and Philip met on the old breakwater. Their last week of holiday had already begun, and Lena could not shake the feeling that something was waiting for them just beyond the edge of the town.
She pulled a file of yellowed pages from her bag and spread them across the stones. "Look at this," she said, leaning in so the wind would not snatch the paper away. "I found it in my uncle's bookcase. It's not just an old letter."
Michal bent closer, his expression doubtful until he saw the drawing: a lighthouse, sketched in quick dark lines, and beneath it a sentence written in faded ink. When the light blinks three times at night, look for the key under the fifth step of the stairs.
"A joke?" he said.
"If it is, it's a very strange one," Zuza murmured, already reading the line twice.
Philip, who never went anywhere without a torch and his phone fully charged, switched both on and off again as if that might help him think. By then the town had gone quiet behind them, and the lighthouse stood on the hill above the harbour, its white tower cutting into the darkening sky.
They waited until night fell and the automatic lamp came alive above them. Then they crossed the empty streets, pushed through wind-bent bushes, and climbed the narrow path to the tower. The door was locked, but from inside came the steady hum of a machine turning.
Lena placed her hand on the cold wood. The light above them blinked once.
Then a second time.
Then a third.
"Now," she whispered.
Inside, the stairwell smelled of salt and damp stone. Their footsteps echoed as they climbed, each turn of the stairs seeming narrower than the last. On the fifth step, Lena crouched and ran her fingers along the edge until she found a small metal flap hidden in the wood.
Philip opened it. Inside lay a scrap of map wrapped in waxed cloth and a small rusty casket no bigger than his palm.
No one spoke. Michal was already reaching for the casket when a soft clatter sounded from somewhere behind the wall, close enough to make them all freeze.
Then came another sound: slow footsteps moving above them, though the tower had been empty a moment ago.