The lighthouse was never truly silent. Even in the moments between the wind's howling and the sea's crashing, Cassie heard something—an echo, a memory, the low hum of a presence she couldn't quite name.
But that morning, she wasn't alone with the whispers. Sherilyn had arrived from the city, suitcase in tow, her eyes already brimming with curiosity as she took in the weatherworn tower.
"It's exactly like you described," Sherilyn said, running her fingers along the cracked stone wall. "Like it's holding its breath. Waiting."
Cassie smiled faintly. "That's one way to put it."
Sherilyn set her suitcase down and turned. "So? Show me. The letters."
Cassie hesitated. Part of her wanted to guard them, to keep their intimacy hers alone. But Sherilyn was family—blood, history, roots. If anyone deserved to see them, it was her. Cassie pulled the bundle from her satchel, untied the ribbon, and handed one over.
Sherilyn read quietly, her lips moving without sound. By the time she finished, her expression was caught between awe and ache. "This—this is incredible, Cass. It's like reading someone's soul. And they wrote to someone with your name."
"I know." Cassie exhaled. "I keep asking myself if it's coincidence, or if there's something... deeper."
Sherilyn glanced at her, brows furrowed. "Maybe both." She lowered her voice. "You think... this could tie to us?"
Cassie felt a chill. "That's what I want to find out."
Later that afternoon, Cassie and Sherilyn walked into town to visit Antonio Pizarras. His house sat on the edge of the cliffs, weather-beaten but sturdy, like the man himself. Antonio was waiting on the porch, cane resting by his chair, eyes sharp despite his years.
"Policarpios," Antonio said as they approached, his voice gravelly. "Or should I say... lighthouse heirs."
Cassie swallowed. "Mr. Pizarras, thank you for seeing us."
Antonio gestured for them to sit. "You've been stirring the air, girl. Asking questions. Reading what should've stayed buried."
Sherilyn frowned. "What do you mean?"
Antonio leaned forward, his gaze settling on Cassie. "That tower holds more than stone and sea. It holds promises that broke people, tore families. The Pastors, the Pizarrases, even the Policarpios—we've all been marked by it."
Cassie's heart skipped. "The Policarpios?"
Antonio's lips pressed into a line, as though he'd already said too much. "Old ties. Forgotten ties. Not for me to tell."
"Then who?" Cassie pressed.
Antonio looked out at the sea, his silence louder than words. Finally, he muttered, "You want the truth, niña? Be ready to carry its weight. Because once you uncover it, it doesn't let you go."
Sherilyn leaned closer. "But you know, don't you? You know who wrote those letters."
Antonio's eyes flickered. "I know pieces. A man's devotion can light a flame brighter than oil. But devotion... it can also destroy."
Cassie's pulse quickened. "Who was he waiting for?"
But Antonio pushed himself up with his cane, signaling the conversation was over. "Go home, child. The sea will tell you more than I can."
The walk back to town was heavy with silence until Sherilyn finally blurted, "He knows. He definitely knows."
Cassie nodded. "And he's protecting someone. Or something."
Sherilyn chewed her lip. "Which means we need to talk to the Pastors."
Cassie's stomach tightened. JM's family. She wasn't sure if she was ready for the kind of truths they might hold, but the urgency in the letters was clawing at her. She couldn't stop now.
Benita Pastor opened the door of the Pastor home with a polite smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. She was elegant in a quiet way, her silvering hair pinned neatly, her presence calm but guarded.
"Ms. Policarpio," she greeted, then glanced at Sherilyn. "And company."
"My cousin," Cassie explained. "Sherilyn."
Benita nodded, stepping aside. "Come in."
The Pastor home was warm, filled with the smell of stew simmering on the stove. Family photographs lined the walls, most of JM and Kyline at different ages. Cassie's gaze lingered on one in particular—JM as a boy, standing beside the lighthouse, his expression unreadable even then.
Benita noticed. "That place has always been tied to us. To our story." She turned, her tone shifting. "But I imagine that's why you're here."
Cassie hesitated. "I've found letters. Letters hidden in the lighthouse. They're... intimate. They speak of love, of promises. And I think they connect to your family. Maybe even to mine."
Benita's face softened, but her hands clasped tightly in front of her. "Those letters should have been left in the walls. They belong to the past."
"But the past is bleeding into the present," Cassie said quietly. "I can't ignore it."
Benita studied her for a long moment, then sighed. "My father used to tell me stories. About a man who lit the lantern not just for ships, but for someone he was waiting for. A love that never returned—or perhaps never could."
"Who was he?" Cassie pressed.
Benita shook her head. "Stories shift with time. What matters is not who he was, but what he carried. And what his children carried after him."
Cassie's chest tightened. "His children?"
Benita glanced at her, then away. "Some truths aren't mine to tell. You should speak to JM."
At his name, Cassie felt a pull in her chest. "He won't answer me. Not fully."
Benita's lips curved sadly. "That's because some wounds don't close, even across generations."
When they left the Pastor home, the evening air was cool, the sky streaked with crimson and violet. Sherilyn walked beside her in silence until they reached the lighthouse path.
Finally, Sherilyn spoke. "They're all circling around it. The Pizarrases, the Pastors. And now us. We're all pieces of the same puzzle."
Cassie nodded, clutching the satchel where the letters rested. "Which means the truth isn't just about them. It's about us too."
Sherilyn shivered. "Then maybe you were meant to find them. Maybe you were the one who was supposed to finish this story."
Cassie looked up at the lighthouse, its silhouette stark against the fading sky. For the first time, she felt the weight of inheritance not just as property, but as destiny. The letters weren't just calling her to remember. They were asking her to choose.
And somewhere inside her, beneath the fear and the ache, she wondered if JM Pastor already knew what choice she would make.
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