Tess’s log is a week of fog and no drama, then tonight.

1800. Marine layer. Dew point kissing the air. Horn still disconnected. 1910. Visual “answer” east. No hull. Radio: skip, crabber on another coast. 1922. Tide-clock skipping. Stick in cistern? (check) 1930. Do not go to the rocks. I mean it. I mean you.

The last line is for you, probably. It is also for Tess, who has to write orders to herself when the stories get loud.

You copy the skip call-sign into your own page. A real voice, a wrong place. Ducting is a hallway in the sky. Panic plus a legend turns a hallway into a haunting.

Mr. Peck’s files are in the cottage crate: ghost-ship clippings glued beside weather notes, as if he already knew the two columns needed each other.

The foghorn shed is still making vowels.

You turn a page and find Tess’s worse handwriting, the storm kind: I heard help. Played it back in my head. It was kelp. Brain is a liar I like. That line is worth more than a ghost. You copy it. You add skip = real, place = wrong. The crate of files waits like a patient animal. The horn waits like an impatient one.