Tommaso Rinaldi hated sand. It got between his toes, scratched up his tablet screen, and always seemed to find its way into his snacks. So when the train pulled into the tiny seaside station of Santa Marea, he let out a long, theatrical sigh.
«Seriously? No signal already?» he muttered, tapping his phone like it had betrayed him.
Outside the window, the town looked like something from a dusty postcard. Narrow cobbled streets. A few painted boats bobbing in a sleepy harbor. And, up on the hill, a crooked silhouette—the old lighthouse, long shut down and rumored to be haunted.
«Tom!» came a cheerful voice. A girl with curly dark hair waved at him from the platform. She was wearing hiking boots, cargo shorts, and an enormous grin.
It was his cousin, Irene.
«Your backpack weighs more than you do,» she said, grabbing it before he could complain. «Come on, Grandpa’s waiting with the Vespa.»
Tom squinted at the blazing sun and shuffled after her. He already missed the air conditioning.
Grandpa Pietro's house sat on the edge of a cliff, all crooked beams and the smell of salt and old wood. The kind of place where you half expected to find pirate treasure in the cellar—or a ghost in the pantry.
That evening, after a dinner of fried anchovies and roasted peppers, they sat on the terrace, the sea stretching out below them like a sheet of silver.
«Did you know,» Grandpa Pietro began, puffing on his pipe, «that long ago, on nights like this, the lighthouse used to light up all on its own?»
Tom rolled his eyes. Irene leaned forward.
«They said it was the ghost of Zeno—my brother,» Pietro said, eyes narrowing. «He disappeared forty years ago. Vanished without a trace, just after the shipwreck of the Elettra.»
«Shipwreck?» Irene said, suddenly serious.
«Cargo ship. Sank during a storm. Officially it was an accident. But Zeno… Zeno believed it was sabotage. He was looking into it. Said there was a secret aboard. Something worth killing for.»
Tom blinked. «So… did he find it?»
«No one knows,» Grandpa said. «But the night he vanished, the lighthouse flickered to life. One last time.»
Tom couldn’t sleep. Maybe it was the sound of waves, or the lingering scent of salt and oil on his pillow. Or maybe it was the story about Zeno. He turned over and checked his tablet: battery 3%, no Wi-Fi. Useless.
He got up and wandered to the window.
That’s when he saw it.
A faint pulse, like a blink of light, from the lighthouse tower.
He rubbed his eyes. The place had been out of service for decades. There was no electricity. No keeper. No reason for it to shine.
But there it was again.
Blink. Pause. Blink-blink. Long pause.
He wasn’t sure, but it almost looked like… a code.
He backed away from the window and tiptoed down the hall.
«Irene,» he whispered, nudging her door open. «Wake up.»
She groaned, buried under her blanket. «If you say there's Wi-Fi outside I swear—»
«The lighthouse,» Tom said. «It’s flashing. I think someone’s in there.»
Irene was silent for a second.
Then she threw off the covers and grinned.
«Grab your shoes.»
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