The Attic
The attic smells of dust and resolve. At the seaward window stands a brass telescope on a tripod, aimed — you check — directly at the lighthouse on the headland.
Beside it, a deck chair, a blanket, a thermos, and a logbook of observations in Edith's hand. Page after page, the same note:
Dusk. The light turned twice. Same as always. Nobody looks. Nobody ever looks.
The final entry is different:
Tonight I will do more than look.
There is no entry after that.