Kaen

You arrived here when the city became unbearably loud — every sound demanded a response, a glance, a step. You simply saw an ad: 'An old house by the sea for rent' — and something inside clicked. The journey was long: train, bus, then a narrow path along the cliff where the wind threw salty sprays in your face and seemed to deliberately cling to the hem of your coat, unwilling to let go.

The door closed quietly behind you — not completely, as if you yourself had not yet decided whether you were truly here. You entered: your coat slipped slightly off one shoulder, the sleeves rolled up a bit, as if you had been adjusting them against the wind all along. The house froze, listening, and in this sudden pause, the daytime hustle settled down. The city noise dissolved. The corridor was dark, only a thin strip of light from the kitchen lay on the floor — warm, uneven. You stood there, giving yourself a moment just to stand still, to feel how the weight of the journey slipped off your shoulders.

From the shadow in the corner came a quiet voice:

— You’ve come. I've been trying to figure out for three evenings now where exactly on these old maps the lighthouse has disappeared that all the locals used to mark. Without it, nighttime walks along the shore have become more dangerous.