The Gravity Of Alana

Chapter 4

I lingered at my desk longer than I needed to, staring at the manila folder George had left me. The Summer Festival. Bright, cheerful, colorful everything I wasn't feeling right now. I understood why it mattered. In a town like Alana, these festivals were the heart of the community, the moments people clung to in a world that rarely changed. But it wasn't why I'd come back.

George had all but said it himself: "People are hoping you'll find more than feel-good stories." And as much as I hated to admit it, I could feel it too—a quiet pull, like the town itself was nudging me toward something deeper. Something waiting beneath the surface. The problem was, I wasn't sure I was ready to dig into it.

I flipped open my notebook, the one I carried everywhere now, and skimmed over the messy notes from earlier:

Daniel Allan—Real estate agent. Moved back to Alana a year ago. "Needed a change."

Underneath, I'd scrawled a single question to myself:

Why did he really come back?

There was something Daniel hadn't said, something he was holding back. I'd seen it in the way his gaze shifted when I asked him about returning to Alana. His words—*"Just needed a change"—*had been too smooth, too practiced. The kind of line you use to end a conversation before it starts. But it wasn't just what he didn't say. It was the way his tone had shifted when he mentioned the lighthouse.

"I keep thinking about the lighthouse," he'd said, almost as if the words had slipped out before he could stop them. He'd dismissed it quickly after, brushing it off like it meant nothing. But it wasn't nothing. I'd seen the way his expression tightened, just for a moment, as though the mention of the lighthouse had opened a door he wasn't ready to walk through. The lighthouse again.

I set my notebook down and turned to my computer, scrolling through the archive files I'd pulled up earlier. The lighthouse had come up more times in the past few weeks than I could count. George had mentioned it casually during one of our first conversations, lumping it in with property disputes and local rumors like it was just another line item. Developers were sniffing around, he'd said, eyeing the land as part of a broader plan to modernize the town. But there'd been something in his tone, something unspoken, that made it clear the lighthouse wasn't just another piece of property.

I clicked through the articles, most of them historical—a dry piece about the lighthouse's closure decades ago, a feature on its history as a guiding beacon for Alana's fishermen. But one article stood out:

"Teen Found Dead at Alana Lighthouse. Authorities Rule Death Accidental."

Theo Peterson. Sixteen years old. The report was sparse, clinical, almost cold. Theo had fallen from the cliffs near the lighthouse, and the investigation concluded there was no foul play. Case closed. But even in the dry language of the article, there was something hollow about it, like the real story had been buried alongside him.

I leaned back in my chair, staring at the screen. Theo's name lingered in my mind like a shadow, heavy and unshakable. A sixteen-year-old boy. A death ruled accidental. But no follow-ups. No investigations. Just the word "accidental," stamped over it like a period at the end of an unfinished sentence.

And now Daniel Allan—a man who'd left Alana and chosen to come back—had mentioned the lighthouse unprompted. Not as a casual observation, but as something that was on his mind. It was starting to feel less like a coincidence and more like a thread waiting to be pulled.

I glanced out the window, my eyes drifting toward the cliffs in the distance. From here, the lighthouse was just a dark silhouette against the horizon, its tall, weathered frame jutting into the sky. Its light hadn't swept over the town in decades, but somehow it still felt like it was watching. Like it hadn't forgotten the lives it had touched, the secrets it had kept.

There was something about that lighthouse, something that tied people like Daniel—and maybe even me—to this town. For the first time, I felt a flicker of something I hadn't felt in years. It wasn't excitement, exactly. It was curiosity, tempered by unease, a pull toward something I didn't fully understand yet.

I pulled my gaze back to the computer and clicked through another set of archives. Most of them were mundane: meeting notes about land use, town votes on historical preservation, and even an old editorial about painting the lighthouse's exterior. But then, in an old column about "trouble spots" for kids in Alana, a new name caught my attention: Maria Flores.

Maria Flores. I jotted the name in my notebook. The column described teenagers coming into the clinic after getting injured near the cliffs, scrapes and bruises from "adventuring where they shouldn't." The lighthouse had been mentioned as one of the places kids dared each other to go. Maria, a nurse at the clinic, had been quoted briefly, urging parents to talk to their kids about staying away from dangerous areas. It wasn't much, but it was a start. If anyone could tell me more about what was happening near the lighthouse—now or back then—it was her.

The Alana Medical Clinic

The clinic was quiet when I arrived, its glass door swinging open to reveal a neat, sterile lobby. A faint smell of antiseptic lingered in the air. A single receptionist sat behind the front desk, typing on her computer, and I approached with my notebook tucked under my arm.

"Hi," I said, offering a small smile. "I'm Elena Parker, with the Gazette. I was hoping to speak to Nurse Maria Flores if she's available."

The receptionist glanced up, her fingers pausing on the keyboard. Her brow furrowed slightly, as though she was trying to place me. After a moment, she picked up the phone and dialed.

"Maria? There's someone here from the Gazette asking to see you."

I shifted on my feet, glancing around the lobby while I waited. A few posters about flu shots and healthy eating lined the walls, but other than that, the room was bare, and clinical. A minute later, the door behind the desk opened, and Maria Flores stepped into view.

She was tall and composed, her dark brown hair pulled into a low ponytail, with a stethoscope draped casually around her neck. Her hazel eyes flicked over me with a mix of curiosity and caution.

"You're with the Gazette?" she asked, extending a hand.

"That's right," I said, shaking her hand. "Elena Parker. I'm looking into some local stories, and I was hoping you might be able to help me."

Maria studied me for a moment before nodding. "Come on back. I've got a few minutes."

She led me into a small office just off the main hallway. The walls were bare, except for a framed certificate and a calendar hanging near the door. She gestured for me to sit, taking the chair across from me.

"What kind of story are you working on?" she asked.

"Well, to be honest, I'm following a few threads right now," I said, opening my notebook. "But one of them has to do with the lighthouse. I've heard people talking about strange things out there—kids getting injured, rumors about developers, even whispers about Theo Peterson. I saw your name in an old column about teenagers getting hurt near the cliffs, so I thought I'd start here."

Maria's expression shifted slightly, her eyes narrowing. For a moment, she said nothing, and the silence stretched thin between us.

"The lighthouse," she said finally. Her voice was quiet, cautious. "It's just an old building. People like to make up stories about it, that's all."

"Do you really think that's all it is?" I pressed gently.

Maria's jaw tightened, and she let out a slow breath. "I've treated kids who've gotten hurt out there—scrapes, bruises, sprains. Nothing unusual. But the things they say..." She trailed off, glancing toward the window where the cliffs were barely visible in the distance. "Some of them swear they saw lights in the lighthouse, even though it's been abandoned for years. Others say they heard voices or footsteps, but no one was there."

I leaned forward slightly. "Do you believe them?"