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Every night, the lighthouse shone on the city instead of the sea.

Mina had never told anyone. The white tower at the end of the harbor cliff was supposed to be dead; every tourist map marked it with a red warning that said KEEP OUT. But whenever rain fell, a thin gold beam slipped from the lantern room and moved over wet alleys, closed shop signs, and the shoes of people who had missed the last tram.

The first time Mina saw it, she was walking home without an umbrella. A dismissal notice was folded in her hand. In her pocket, she had just enough coins for one bus ride. When the beam brushed her shoes, something impossible appeared in the puddle at her feet: tomorrow morning, in front of the old bakery, a boy with a silver suitcase would be crying because he was lost.

The next morning, the puddle came true.

The boy's name was Noah. He was not from the city, and he said there was an ocean inside his suitcase. Mina was not the kind of adult who had spare room for sentences like that, but when Noah opened the case, the sound of waves poured out. A little blue tide washed across the street, touched the smell of fresh bread, and withdrew as if nothing strange had happened at all.

"The lighthouse chose you," Noah said.

"Lighthouses choose people now?"

"The ones that remember rain do. They call someone when an old road needs to be lit again."

Mina held the key he had dropped on her palm. White powder, bright as sea salt, clung to its teeth. The light that settled into the lines of her hand felt warm, like a promise made long before she was born. Until yesterday, she had thought her world had shrunk to the size of one folded sheet of paper. But the lighthouse kept shining over the city, and the city still had doors that had not been opened.