Just then, daylight vanished like a candle’s flame that had simply been snuffed out into utter darkness.
I squeezed my eyes closed and opened them wide again, fully expecting to see the man’s twisted limbs sprawled out across rocks at irregular angles by the moon’s light.
I saw no such thing, only a giant wave rolling over rocks and breaking apart, foaming at the mouth. Another wind came, icicles slipping down my windpipe and freezing the walls of my throat. I leaned over the railing with my head in my folded arms, taking a deep breath. The tight wall of my chest beat against the steel.
Was I still going mad? Had I imagined the entire thing?
I looked upon the rocks once more, and the moon reflected off an object.
It was a few feet away from where his remains should have been.
The speck of reflective light drew me in.
Circe’s father’s trousers were loose around my waist as I descended the stairs. Slower this time. The bottom hem didn’t quite reach my ankles, and that was where the cold grabbed me. I walked across the beach to the other side of the rocks where I’d seen the reflection.
I crouched down and sifted the beach.
What are you trying to tell me?
I desperately shoveled into the cold, wet sand.
The nose of a glass bottle protruded, and I yanked it out.
Inside was a curled note, its edges frayed.
A cork protected the message.
The moon’s light above bounced off another glass wedged deep into the sand. I pushed sand out of the way. Aclink!
Another turned up. Then another.
One by one, I unearthed bottle after bottle from their burial place, where time capsules had washed up on shore and seized this very spot. Much like memories had a way of leaving behind pieces of where we’d been, these bottles were smudges of history that refused to be forgotten.
With each bottle, the past rattled through me.
A hum of deranged and daffodil hair.
Insanity and olive eyes.
A collection of Circe.
There had to be at least a few dozen. Possibly more.
Another cry came and went. In a hurry, I gathered all the bottles in my arms and trudged through the sand back to the lighthouse, my boots leaving deep footprints behind me.
A strong, cold gust came. I entered the lighthouse just in time, the wind hurling itself against the other side of the door.
Stagnant air fell around me, and I fanned the bottles across the unbalanced table.
One bottle rolled off the edge and crashed on the floor.
I bent down, picked up the worn paper, and shook off the shards of broken glass.
It felt wrong, as though I was prying. These messages were meant for someone else. Certainly not for me.
I clutched the letter in my fist, walked to the window, and looked out into the distance. The wind slid along the broken window, singing and reminding me of Circe’s voice.
I closed my eyes and curled my fingers around the paper, squeezing and trying to extract her memory, desperate to feel her once more.
