RETURN TO BLEAKPOINT - Day 1763
The sea had not changed, yet everything else had. After months away, I returned to Bleakpoint, now weathered by loss but drawn by a force I couldn't name. The wind howled, a hollow sound echoing through the empty lighthouse. The once-warm stone walls now felt like a tomb. I wandered the cliffs, searching for traces of her laughter, but only the distant cry of gulls answered.
The light still spun in its endless orbit. Cold, mechanical. I watched it flicker against the evening mist, a futile beacon to a world that no longer needed saving. The village spoke of strange occurrences—lights beneath the waves, whispers carried by the wind. They warned me, but it was already too late. The sea, as constant as ever, beckoned.
Inside the lighthouse, the ticking of the old clock kept time, though for what purpose, I didn’t know. Days blurred into nights. Memories twisted, becoming indistinguishable from dreams. I would wake, certain I heard her voice. I would run to the shore, but there was only the sea—endless and indifferent.
One stormy night, the wind screamed louder than I had ever heard. The lighthouse creaked, groaned, and for the first time, I felt it: the pull beneath the waves. I stood at the edge, the cliffs crumbling beneath my feet. And there, in the storm's chaos, I saw them—lights, deep below the surface, swirling and dancing. The wind pushed harder, but I didn’t resist.
Bleakpoint was never meant to be a place of refuge. It was a boundary, a threshold. And now, I had crossed it.
The lighthouse stood silent, its light cutting through the fog as it always had, though I now understood its deeper purpose. I couldn’t shake the feeling that something lived beneath the waves. On the surface, Bleakpoint was unchanged, but I could sense a tremor, a shift in the air.
I wandered the shoreline at dusk, the tide pulling at my feet. That night, I dreamt of her. She stood on the rocks, smiling, but her eyes—they were different, darker, as if they too had glimpsed the depths.
I woke with the taste of salt on my lips, and the whispers that had haunted my dreams grew louder. Each night I was drawn closer to the sea, unable to resist. The wind carried voices—hers among them, calling me to return. I had once believed the sea to be indifferent, but now I knew it was waiting.
The final night, the pull became irresistible. The storm raged, the ocean thrashing against the rocks with violent fury. I followed the voices to the shore, stepping into the water as the tide wrapped around me. The lights flickered beneath the waves once more—this time closer, brighter. I felt the cold weight of the ocean dragging me down, and I didn’t fight it.
In the silence beneath the storm, I saw her. She had become part of the sea, her form shimmering in the deep like a forgotten memory. I reached out, but the current pulled me further. As I sank, I realized: Bleakpoint was not a place of refuge. It was a gateway, and now, I had passed through. The sea welcomed me into its endless depths.
