Claude

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The stairs spiraled upward like a question Mara could never answer. One hundred and forty-seven steps, worn smooth by decades of footfalls—hers now, her brother’s before, their father’s before that. Each evening she climbed them, hand trailing the iron rail, gulls crying their accusations beyond the salt-streaked windows. The wind pressed against the tower’s stones, a sound like breathing, like the sea itself had lungs.

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Maya had always been a light sleeper, but lately, she’d been waking at exactly 3:17 AM every night. Not 3:16, not 3:18—always 3:17. Tonight, instead of lying there staring at the ceiling, she decided to follow the strange pull she felt toward her window.