Marina stood at the edge of the blue disc and felt the hum settle into her bones like a second heartbeat. The light was not electric. It was not chemical. It was something older, something that predated every category she had learned in graduate school. She knelt and touched the surface. It was cool and slightly yielding, like pressing into dense gel. Images flooded her mind. She saw the ocean as it had been thousands of years ago, teeming with creatures that modern science had no record of. She saw coastlines that had long since eroded into memory, civilizations that built with coral and communicated through patterns of bioluminescent light. The visions were not frightening. They were beautiful and profoundly sad, like watching a home movie of a family that no longer existed. When she pulled her hand away, her fingers tingled and the images faded. She understood now what Keeper Ellsworth had discovered and why he had warned others away. This place was not dangerous in the way that storms or predators were dangerous. It was dangerous because it showed you what had been lost, and that knowledge carried a weight that never lifted. She spent the night in the chamber, recording everything she could. By morning, the light had dimmed to a faint glow. She climbed back to the surface and found the island smaller than before, the shoreline contracted, the forest thinner. It was retreating, sinking back into the depths on whatever tidal schedule governed its existence. She barely made it to the Delphine before the beach disappeared beneath rising water. As she motored away, she watched the last silver treetops slip below the surface. In her backpack, the journal felt heavier than before. She would not report the island to anyone. Some discoveries were not meant to be shared. They were meant to be carried, quietly, like the ocean carries its dead.