The Letter
Inside, a single sheet, handwriting old-fashioned and salt-stiff:
E. —
You have counted correctly. You always were the only one who counted.
If you want it back — the day, the cat, all of it — come to me when the light turns twice. Bring nothing but the name. The door only answers to its name.
— The Keeper
You look up. Through the post office window, on the headland, the lighthouse stands in the fog, patient as furniture.
Verity Sparrow is very pointedly not reading over your shoulder, in the manner of someone who has already read it.
"Dusk," she says, to no one in particular, stamping a form. "The light does its business at dusk. If a person happened to be on the cliff path then, a person would see."