Chapter Five
The sky turned violet again that evening—deeper than any before.
It bled across the horizon in strokes of plum, lavender, bruised blue. It didn't feel like dusk anymore; it felt like the space between lifetimes. And Amira could feel it, humming beneath her skin like a second heartbeat.
She stood alone at the edge of the cliff, just beyond the lighthouse grounds, barefoot and still. Below, the sea was no longer calm. It rolled like a living thing, dark and endless, as if remembering everything ever lost within it.
Behind her, Elias watched.
He had followed her at a distance all day. Said nothing. Asked nothing. But she knew he felt it too. The shift in the wind. The way the light changed, not just in the sky, but in the way time moved.
The dusk had grown thicker lately. It lasted longer. The voices came earlier. And tonight, for the first time, they sang.
Softly, mournfully, in a language she didn't know—but somehow understood.
"What are they saying?" she whispered.
The voices floated around her like smoke.
"Prepare."
"Choose."
"Cross or anchor."
She looked over her shoulder. "Elias…"
He stepped forward slowly, lips parted, like he too had just heard something he hadn't in years.
"They're calling to you now," he said.
"Why?"
"Because you're listening."
Amira's breath hitched. "But I don't know what they want."
"They never tell you directly," Elias said, standing beside her now. "They just open the door. And wait."
She turned toward him, her voice barely audible. "What if I don't want to go through?"
He didn't look at her. His gaze remained fixed on the horizon. "Then you must anchor yourself. Choose something worth staying for."
"And if I don't?" she asked.
"Then the dusk keeps calling—until you answer."
They walked back in silence.
That night, the lantern in the lighthouse flickered. The light usually steady, now pulsed—three slow beats, pause, one sharp flare. Elias noticed it, but said nothing.
In the loft above, Amira lay awake, heart thudding in rhythm with the beacon.
She saw Solène again in her dreams. Standing waist-deep in the ocean, arms open, face tilted toward the stars. Her mouth moved, but no sound came.
Behind her, a shadowy figure stood at the edge of the water. Watching. Waiting.
When Amira awoke, her pillow was damp.
She couldn't tell if it was from tears—or seawater.