Charlotte Stephie Sylvie Instant

The point was the light. Not the grand, sweeping beam—but the small, steady one. The one that just blinks and stays.

The lighthouse was smaller than they’d expected. A whitewashed tooth on a gray cliff, its light not even spinning—just a steady, stubborn blink into the fog. The caretaker, a man named Earl who smelled like wet wool and salted peanuts, handed them a key without asking for ID. “Nobody comes here anymore,” he said. “You girls be careful on the stairs.” charlotte stephie sylvie

“What is it?” Charlotte asked.

“She loves you too. She asks about you both. Every time.” Sylvie wiped her nose with her sleeve. “She says, ‘Where are those nice girls who break things?’ Because that one time you dropped my mother’s wedding vase. Fifteen years ago, Charlotte.” The point was the light