The man in the gray suit had been watching the old lighthouse for three weeks. He never spoke to anyone, just stood at the edge of the cliff with a pair of binoculars and a notebook filled with strange symbols. The townspeople whispered about him, calling him “the Watcher,” but no one dared approach him. He was always there, even when the fog rolled in and the sea turned black as ink. The lighthouse itself was abandoned, its beacon long since extinguished. It had been shut down after a series of unexplained disappearances in the 1960s. No one knew what happened to the keepers or the visitors who came to see the light. Some said they were taken by the sea, others claimed they vanished into thin air. The government had sealed the building and posted a warning sign that read: "Do Not Enter. Danger." But the Watcher didn’t seem to care. He would sit on the rusted steps, scribbling in his notebook, occasionally looking up toward the sky as if waiting for something. One night, a local journalist named Clara decided to follow him. She had heard the rumors and wanted to find out the truth. She kept her distance, hidden behind a cluster of rocks, watching as he opened a small metal box and placed something inside—a small, silver object that glowed faintly in the dark. Clara couldn’t tell what it was, but it looked like a key. Or maybe a compass. She waited until the Watcher left, then approached the lighthouse. The door creaked open with little resistance, as if it had been expecting her. Inside, the air was thick with dust and the smell of salt. The walls were covered in strange markings, some resembling constellations, others more like ancient runes. In the center of the room, she found a circular platform embedded in the floor. It was made of black stone, etched with intricate patterns that seemed to shift when she moved. At the very center was a depression shaped like a keyhole. The silver object from the Watcher’s box fit perfectly. When she inserted it, the platform began to hum, and the walls lit up with soft blue light. Suddenly, the floor beneath her shifted. A low rumble echoed through the structure, and the ceiling above cracked open, revealing a swirling mass of stars. Clara stumbled back, heart pounding, as the light pulsed rhythmically, almost like a heartbeat. She felt a pull, not physical, but something deeper—something that called to her. She reached out, fingers brushing the edge of the platform, and in an instant, she was no longer in the lighthouse. She stood in a vast, endless corridor lined with doors. Each door was different—some made of wood, others of glass, some even floating in midair. The air was cold, yet she felt no fear, only curiosity. As she stepped forward, the doors began to open on their own, revealing glimpses of other worlds: a city of floating islands, a desert where the sand shimmered like liquid, a forest where the trees whispered secrets in languages she didn’t understand. Then she saw the Watcher. He was standing at the end of the corridor, watching her. His eyes were hollow, but they held a strange familiarity. He raised a hand, and the corridor began to dissolve around her. She tried to run, but the space folded in on itself, pulling her back to the lighthouse. When she opened her eyes, she was back on the cliff, the moon hanging low in the sky. The Watcher was gone, and the lighthouse stood silent once more. But in her pocket, she found the silver key, now warm to the touch. She never told anyone what she saw. She wrote a story about the lighthouse, but it was vague, filled with half-truths and speculation. The town went back to its quiet ways, and the Watcher disappeared without a trace. But every so often, people reported seeing a figure on the cliff, watching the sea, waiting for something that never came. And deep beneath the earth, in a place no map could show, the doors still wait.