The old lighthouse on the edge of the cliffs had stood for over a century, its white paint peeling like sunburned skin. No one lived there anymore, but every few years, someone would return—drawn by an unspoken pull, as if the place itself whispered their name in the wind. Elias was one of them. He had been a child when his grandfather first told him the story of the lighthouse and the ghost that watched from within. The old man had died before Elias could ask more, leaving only a faded photograph of the structure and a note scrawled in shaky handwriting: *Don’t go near the light after midnight.* Years later, Elias found himself standing at the base of the cliff, the sea roaring below like a living thing. The lighthouse loomed above him, its windows dark, its door slightly ajar. He didn’t remember climbing the stairs, but he found himself inside, the air thick with salt and something else—something metallic, like rust and blood. The interior was colder than it should have been. Dust covered the floor, but there were no footprints. The spiral staircase creaked under his weight, each step echoing louder than the last. At the top, the beam of light flickered weakly, casting long shadows across the walls. Then, the clock struck thirteen. It wasn’t a real clock, but Elias heard it clearly, the chime resonating in his skull. He turned, expecting to see a figure, but there was only the beam of light, now steady and bright. As he stepped closer, the light began to pulse, syncing with his heartbeat. A woman appeared in the glow—her face blurred, her features shifting like smoke. She reached out, her hand passing through the beam as if it were water. Elias felt a chill crawl up his spine, not from fear, but from recognition. This was the same woman from his grandfather’s photo, though younger, her eyes filled with sorrow. She spoke, but her voice was not in the air—it was in his mind. *You are not the first, nor will you be the last.* He tried to move, but his legs refused. The light grew brighter, and the walls began to shift. The room stretched and twisted, becoming something unfamiliar. The floor beneath him cracked, revealing a vast underground chamber filled with mirrors. Each one reflected a different version of himself—some older, some younger, some with faces he did not recognize. In one mirror, he saw a version of himself standing outside the lighthouse, holding a lantern. In another, he was lying on the cold floor, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling. The woman’s voice returned, softer this time. *You are here because you are meant to be here.* Elias tried to speak, but his mouth wouldn’t work. The mirrors began to shatter, glass raining down in slow motion. The woman stepped forward, her form solid now, her expression unreadable. She placed a hand on his chest, and the world around him dissolved into darkness. When he opened his eyes, he was back at the bottom of the lighthouse, the door firmly closed. The sea still roared, but the wind had changed. It carried a whisper, not of the woman, but of something else—something ancient, watching. He stumbled down the cliff, his legs trembling, his mind foggy. The town was quiet, the streets empty. He walked past the old bakery, the diner, the library, each building untouched by time. But when he reached his house, he found the door ajar. Inside, everything was exactly as he left it—except for the mirror in the hallway. It showed not his reflection, but the woman from the lighthouse, smiling faintly. He turned away, heart pounding. The next morning, he found a note on his desk, written in his own handwriting: *Don’t forget. You’re not done yet.* And somewhere in the distance, the lighthouse beam flickered once more, as if waiting.