The Gravity Of Alana

Chapter 6

The afternoon sun felt harsh and glaring as I stepped out of the clinic, its brightness a contrast to the dim, suffocating atmosphere inside Maria's office. I adjusted my bag on my shoulder and glanced down at my notebook, flipping through the frantic notes I'd scrawled during our conversation.

"Theo wasn't the first."

"The lighthouse is alive."

"I've already lost one person to that place."

The drive back to Aunt Liz's house was quiet, the kind of quiet that wasn't peaceful but heavy. The kind that lets your thoughts echo louder than they should. My notebook sat open on the passenger seat, the scrawled words staring back at me:

"the lighthouse is alive"

"I've already lost one person to that place."

Maria's voice played in my head, calm but laced with something undeniable—fear. She wasn't just warning me; she was trying to stop me from going any further. But if she thought that would work, she didn't know me very well. If anything, her words only made the pull stronger, the need to uncover the truth more urgent.

When I finally pulled into the driveway, the sight of Aunt Liz's small, cozy house gave me a fleeting sense of relief. The garden out front was neatly kept, the hedges trimmed, and the flowers in full bloom—a comforting reminder that not every part of this town carried shadows. The sight was exactly how I remembered it: warm, steady, untouched by time. But today, the familiarity didn't comfort me as it usually did.

I turned off the engine and sat there for a moment, staring at the familiar front porch. The sun was low in the sky, casting a golden haze over the yard, but it didn't help shake the unease clinging to me like a second skin. My fingers drummed against the steering wheel as Maria's words played over and over in my head.

I tried to push the thought away, but it lingered, curling itself into the edges of my mind like fog creeping over the cliffs. Taking a deep breath, I grabbed my bag and stepped out of the car, the cool evening breeze brushing against my skin. The faint scent of Aunt Liz's rosemary bush by the porch mixed with the air's crisp saltiness, but even that couldn't ground me.

As I climbed the steps, I told myself I'd leave my notebook in my bag. No questions tonight. Just dinner and a little quiet. You need the break, I thought. But even as I opened the door, my mind was already reaching back to Maria's office, replaying the tension in her voice, the way her fingers had tapped nervously against the desk.

The smell of roasted vegetables and thyme hit me immediately, warm and inviting. For a moment, I let myself pause, breathing it in. It reminded me of coming here as a kid, watching Aunt Liz put together dinner with effortless precision while I sat at the table, talking about school or my latest half-baked plans for the future. Back then, it had felt like nothing bad could touch this house.

"Elena? That you?" Aunt Liz's voice called from the kitchen, light and cheerful as always.

"Yeah, it's me," I replied, setting my bag down by the door and slipping off my shoes. My tone sounded normal enough, but my throat still felt tight. The weight of the afternoon clung to me like the damp coastal air, and I didn't know how to shake it.

"Hey, you're back," she said. I walked into the kitchen to find her standing at the counter, chopping parsley. Her graying hair was pulled into a loose bun, and she wore the same apron I remembered from when I was a kid—light blue, with tiny white flowers stitched along the edges. "How was your day?"

I hesitated, forcing a smile as I set my bag down on the small entryway table. "Busy," I said vaguely, avoiding her eyes. "I had a couple of interviews for the Gazette."

Aunt Liz turned off the burner and wiped her hands on a dish towel, her expression softening as she looked at me. "You look tired, sweetheart. You sure you're not taking on too much too soon?"

"I'm fine," I said quickly, but the words felt hollow even as they left my mouth. The truth was, I didn't feel fine. My thoughts were tangled and restless, and no amount of comforting soup or warm light could change that.

She studied me for a moment, her brow furrowing slightly as if she could see right through me. Then she motioned to the dining table, where two steaming bowls of soup sat waiting. "Come on, sit down. You need to eat."

I followed her to the table and sank into one of the chairs, wrapping my hands around the bowl to soak in its warmth. Aunt Liz sat across from me, her movements calm and deliberate, the same way they always were. I envied that about her—how steady she seemed, no matter what. But tonight, I caught something in her gaze I hadn't noticed before. A flicker of concern, or maybe something deeper.

"Really, Elena," she said after a moment, her tone gentler now. "You're working so hard. Are you sure you're not taking on too much? Moving back here, starting over... it's a lot."

I hesitated, stirring the soup with my spoon. I wanted to brush her off, to tell her I was fine, but the words wouldn't come. Instead, I said, "I talked to Maria Flores today."

Aunt Liz froze for a split second, her spoon hovering over her bowl. It was barely noticeable, but I caught it. She recovered quickly, dipping the spoon back into her soup and taking a small bite.

"Maria," she said, her tone carefully neutral. "Haven't seen her in years. What did she have to say?"

I hesitated, unsure of how much to share. Finally, I said, "We talked about the lighthouse."

Aunt Liz's spoon clinked against the edge of the bowl as she set it down. Her lips pressed into a thin line, and her gaze dropped to the table.

"The lighthouse," she said softly, almost to herself.

"She told me about Theo Peterson," I continued, watching her closely. "And how he died. She said he wasn't the first. That there's something... wrong with that place."

Aunt Liz's jaw tightened, and she reached for her glass of water, taking a slow sip before answering. "People have always said things about the lighthouse," she said carefully. "But that's all they are—stories. You know how small towns are. Rumors spread like wildfire."

Her tone was light, almost dismissive, but I didn't miss the tension in her shoulders or the way she avoided my gaze.

"Maria seemed pretty sure it wasn't just rumors," I said, pushing a little harder. "She said people have been hurt out there. That there's something dangerous about it."

Aunt Liz let out a small sigh, her hands clasping together on the table. "Elena," she said gently, "some things are better left alone. The lighthouse has been abandoned for years. Whatever happened back then, whatever Maria thinks... it's in the past."

"But what if it's not?" I pressed. "What if people are still being drawn there? Don't you think we should try to understand why?"

Her gaze finally met mine, and for a moment, I thought I saw a flash of something—fear, maybe, or regret. "Not everything needs to be understood, sweetheart," she said quietly. "Sometimes asking questions just makes things worse."

I opened my mouth to argue, but the look in her eyes stopped me. Whatever she wasn't saying, I could tell it was something she didn't want to revisit.

"Okay," I said softly, though the knot in my chest only tightened.

Dinner passed mostly in silence after that, but her words lingered long after I climbed the stairs to my room. Sitting on the edge of my bed, I stared out the window at the cliffs in the distance. The lighthouse was out of sight, hidden by the trees and the curve of the coast, but I could still feel it—its presence pressing against the edges of my mind, insistent and unyielding.

Maria's voice echoed in my head: "The lighthouse is alive."

And as much as I wanted to let it go, I knew I couldn't.