Tia Bejean

That night, the fog rolled in thicker than ever. The lighthouse’s lamp sputtered, the flame wavering as if struggling against an unseen force. Tia felt a cold draft seep through the stone walls, carrying with it a faint, melodic humming. She pressed her palm to the cold stone, listening, and heard a faint echo of a voice—soft, pleading.

“Who summons me?” the sea‑spirit asked, voice echoing like tide‑washed shells. Tia Bejean

Tia tapped the lantern and opened the lid. Inside lay a single crumb of light that smelled faintly of toast and late afternoons. “This light shows what you avoid,” she told him. “Carry it in your pocket. When you feel your hand get heavy with excuse, open it.” That night, the fog rolled in thicker than ever