Elias Thorn recorded when the lighthouse sent its signal. Whether anyone across the sea saw the light, he did not know.
That morning, a short entry appeared on the page: “Received. 06:13.”
His name was written beneath it.
Elias recognised his handwriting. But he had not written those words.
The clock read 06:14.
The lamp had been burning before he arrived. He did not know when it had been lit. The entry might have been an answer — but he had not asked anyone a question yet.
a sheet between the pages
If you see your own handwriting, do not correct the time.
Observation continues from both sides.
Beyond the glass, the sea held a narrow strip of dawn. The beam passed slowly across it, leaving darkness where a moment before he could see. Three flashes. Four. Three.
In the pause, a spoon chimed against a cup — close by, in the room where nobody lived.
The old journals were kept there. A cup had left a ring on the table; dust had not yet closed around its edges. Elias took the bottom notebook.
On the first page: “Received. 06:13.” Someone had crossed out the signature so thoroughly that the paper had worn away with the name. Against the light, he could see his fingers through the hole.
The tear reached into the next line: “When you receive an answer, do not turn off…” The last word was gone. In its place, the next page showed white.
Footsteps sounded behind the far wall. Someone walked from the window to the cupboard. Then back again.
Elias moved the notebooks aside and unfolded a plan of the lighthouse. Here was the staircase. Here was the room he stood in. At this wall, the building ended.
He turned the sheet and checked the positions of the windows. There was no mistake. Where the footsteps came from, the plan showed the sea.
A thin line led from the wall to a note at the edge of the sheet:
lighthouse plan · inner side
The area of the interior space is zero.
He laid his palm against the wall. The plaster was cold. On the other side, someone stopped.
Now he could hear the surf — very far away, as though a large, empty room lay between the wall and the water.
Elias knocked once. A cup clinked softly in reply.
He walked around the room again. There was only one door: the one he had come through.
Elias returned to the window. A second point of light burned on the water.
He covered the lamp with his hand. The point vanished. He moved his hand away; it returned. A reflection. He repeated the movement, and the point obeyed again.
Then the point went out by itself.
The lamp behind him was still burning.
When he bent over the journal again, another line lay beneath the signature. The ink around the last letter had not yet dried.
received · 06:13
I record when your light reaches me.
What do you record?
Elias was about to write the time of sending. His pen had already touched the page. But he had not lit the lamp. He had not seen this rotation begin. He had arrived later.
Instead of numbers, he left a dot.
He could change the clock. He could erase the entry. Then only what he could explain would remain. Elias looked at the hole in the old notebook.
Below the reply, he wrote: “06:14. I saw the light.”
He had not lit it. He had not sent it. He had seen it.
The light appeared on the sea again. It no longer followed the lamp: it was moving slowly beneath the surface. The water above it remained still. Elias had been looking into the distance all morning. Only now did he wonder whether the other shore had to be opposite him.
He left his entry unsigned. He moved the cup so its shadow would not cover the empty line, and did not turn off the lamp.
Three flashes. Four. Three.
A pause followed. He used to count it as part of the signal.
Now there was room in it for someone else to answer.