Marina Chen had always believed the ocean held more stories than any library. Growing up along the rocky coastline of northern Oregon, she spent her childhood pressing her ear to conch shells and pretending the waves were whispering her name. Now, at twenty-six, she stood inside the hollow belly of the Graystone Lighthouse, surrounded by dust and the faint perfume of salt. The building had been decommissioned three years ago, left to rust and barnacles. Nobody visited anymore except the gulls. She had come looking for tide pool data, following a grant that barely covered gas money, when her flashlight caught the edge of a leather journal wedged beneath a loose floorboard. The cover was cracked and swollen with moisture, but the pages inside were remarkably intact. Elegant handwriting filled every line, describing currents and star positions with obsessive precision. The author identified himself only as Keeper Ellsworth, and his entries spanned from March to November of nineteen twenty-three. Most were routine observations about weather patterns and passing ships. But the final entry was different. It contained a set of coordinates scrawled in red ink, circled three times, with a single annotation beneath them: Do not follow the light. Marina copied the numbers into her phone and stared at the map. The coordinates pointed to a location roughly forty nautical miles offshore, in a stretch of Pacific water that commercial vessels avoided due to unpredictable currents. No island appeared on any modern chart. She closed the journal carefully and tucked it into her backpack. Outside, the wind had picked up, pushing dark clouds across the horizon. The lighthouse groaned behind her like something stirring from a long sleep. She knew she should report the find to the historical society. Instead, she drove straight to the marina.