You write the true night until the pencil complains.

Peck, when the van finally noses in, photocopies your page for the science column and leaves the ghost-ship clippings in the left column because he is not at war with feelings. Tess initials the log like a keeper. Ruiz, on the radio, says “copy” in a way that means good.

Wonder stays. Names get accurate. The answering light is a buoy plus a lens plus air that bends. The moan is wind plus a throat plus a cliff. The clock was a stick. The shout was Brass, or it was a grate, or it was both stacked.

You sleep. The fog unmakes itself into ordinary morning water. Last Light is decommissioned and very much in business as a teacher.

THE END

What you learned: a station log that records time, weather, delay-counts, and what you actually saw separates wonder from wish. Echo, fog, refraction, radio skip, and jammed gears explain “hauntings” without throwing the stories away.