The pool’s surface settled, leaving both of them breathless. The hum softened, and a voice, deep and resonant, seemed to echo from the very walls.
Kim saw herself on a small boat, sailing toward a distant lighthouse that shone with a warm, amber light. The lighthouse was not the abandoned ruin she’d seen above, but a thriving beacon, its lantern blazing, guiding ships safely to shore. Beside her stood a woman with familiar eyes—her mother—laughing, her hand on Kim’s shoulder. The sea was calm, and the sky was a clear cerulean. The image shifted, showing Kim as a storyteller, surrounded by eager children, her words painting worlds that felt as real as the tide.
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In the weeks that followed, Kim started a weekly storytelling club at the town’s library. Children gathered every Saturday night, their faces lit by the soft glow of lanterns, as Kim wove tales of daring sailors, hidden coves, and magical waters. Her stories carried a subtle hue, a hint of the teal luminescence she’d seen in Lustery, and the children were entranced.
Kim’s grin was unstoppable. “That’s why we have each other.” The pool’s surface settled, leaving both of them
Mike hesitated. “Do we go down?”
Mike, standing beside her, felt his own surge of images—his father, a marine biologist, who had disappeared during a research expedition years ago; his own fear that his brilliance with circuits was a lonely path; his yearning to be seen, not just for his inventions but for who he was. The lighthouse was not the abandoned ruin she’d
Kim helped by feeding the device with data. She spent nights under the attic’s low‑ceiling light, rotating the map while Mike recorded the sensor’s readings. Patterns emerged: the map’s glow intensified when the compass pointed toward a specific bearing—roughly 237 degrees from true north. When the angle shifted slightly, the intensity dropped.