The tide coughed it onto the shale, green glass smoothed by unseen currents. Inside, a rolled parchment, brittle and yellowed. It spoke of a lonely lighthouse keeper, 1903, his dog, and the vast, indifferent ocean. "Tell someone I was here," it finished, the ink almost faded.

The finder, a girl with sand-dusted fingers, felt a shiver. She clutched the bottle, a century of silent longing pressing against her palm. The lighthouse was long gone, a ghost on the horizon. But a voice had reached out, across time and water, demanding to be heard. And she had listened.