You sleep.

The couch knows your shape. The lantern on dim is a small moon. The station ticks, settles, plays one last grate-three that you could get up and stop, and you do not, because you already proved you could.

Dawn is ordinary and beautiful, which is a sentence people skip when they are hunting ghosts. Fog wears the tower, then tears. Gulls do a loud joke of a meeting on the pier. The cove smells like salt and wet iron, not like a warning.

Tess finds you safe. She reads the open log and the basement note and the horn hatch left honest. “Not haunted,” she says. “Still wonderful. That’s the trick people miss.”

You eat toast. You stay on the planks later, out of habit and respect. Some of Peck’s files stay unread on purpose. In town, before your page exists, a rumor of a ghost ship gets a head start. Tess is glad you are safe and a little sad the log is thin. Wonder stays. The true names have to catch up later, which is a cost.

THE END

What you learned: station “hauntings” are often wind in a horn, echoes off stone, gratings, seals, radios, and a brain that hears words in noise. Safety first is right. Writing the causes down is how you keep a rumor from outrunning the truth.