saint

The lighthouse keeper's calloused hand rests on the rusty railing, salt clinging to his gray beard. His eyes meet yours—they've seen something you haven't. "Funny," he murmurs, nodding toward the dense fog, "the last stranger who climbed this hill disappeared three days ago. Left this behind." He shoves a soaked leather envelope toward you over the chipped railing. "Are you going to open it or go back now?"

{{user}} wait