The End of the Blue Mist (Part 3)

On the sea cliff at the edge of the city, an abandoned lighthouse stood in solitude, like the earth's last rib jutting toward the sky. Its outer walls had been gnawed by sea winds and salt particles until pitted and uneven, the gray-white stone surface giving off a silvery cold light, as if moonlight had solidified into substance. The glass at the top of the tower had long shattered, leaving only rusted iron frames that moaned in the wind, emitting a hollow wail, part sob, part lament. Mist rose from the sea surface, wrapping around the base of the lighthouse, the silver-gray vapors rolling in the dawn light, swallowing the faint glimmer of waves.

Inside the lighthouse, a spiral staircase wound upward, each step covered with a thin layer of mildew, moisture seeping into the wooden boards, emitting a decaying salty smell. At the top of the stairs hung an old oil lamp, its wick flickering, giving off a faint golden-orange light, warm yet powerless, unable to penetrate the surrounding darkness. Next to the lamp sat Margaret, a gaunt old woman wrapped in a tattered woolen shawl, her gray-white hair as disheveled as withered grass, hanging over her shoulders. She gripped a curved wooden staff, her knuckles large, covered in wrinkles carved by time. Her eyes were deeply sunken, the pupils cloudy yet containing a sharp glint, staring at the boundless sea of fog outside the window, as if able to penetrate the folds of time.

04:47:19, waves struck the base of the cliff, the sound deep and prolonged, crashing against the foundation of the lighthouse, stirring up white foam that dispersed in the mist like fleeting dreams. Margaret coughed once, a raspy breath rolling in her throat. She reached out to adjust the flame of the lamp, her fingertips recoiling slightly from the heat. She murmured softly, "Not bright enough." Her voice was dry, like wind passing through dead branches, carrying an obsession known to no one.

She had guarded this lighthouse for thirty years, ever since the last ship disappeared into the mist and the lighthouse lost its purpose. But she hadn't left. She remembered the young man, Simon, who had visited half a year ago. He stood at the foot of the stairs, his blue scarf fluttering in the sea breeze, clutching a leather-bound notebook, his eyes hiding a frenzied light. He said, "Margaret, I need light, a light that can penetrate the fog." She hadn't asked why, merely handed him a spare oil lamp, pointed to the top of the tower, and said, "There's what you want." He climbed up, stayed for a night, and when the morning mist cleared, he left, leaving behind his notebook and a vague message: "Light will remember me."

Margaret pulled out that notebook from under her shawl, its cover worn white, its edges corroded and mottled by sea salt. She opened a page; the paper was yellowed, the handwriting dense and chaotic: "Lighthouse experiment, blue spice + light source, memory refraction, incomplete." Beside it was a sketch, the outline of a metal body, labeled "Tin Blue." She squinted, her fingertips rubbing the paper surface, feeling the indentations of the ink, as if she could touch the fingers of that young man. She didn't understand these things, but she knew he wasn't crazy; he had just gone too far, so far that even the fog couldn't find him.

04:49:33, a sea crab crawled across the windowsill of the lighthouse, its claws tapping the stone surface, making crisp clicking sounds. It paused, its shell reflecting the light of the oil lamp, giving off a faint red glow, as if it had stolen the color of fire. Margaret looked at it, the corners of her mouth turning up slightly, revealing a weary smile. She said softly, "Are you lost too?" The crab didn't move, just raised one claw as if in response. She snorted, turning to look outside the window. The mist was thinning, revealing a patch of deep blue sea, its edges dyed with the golden threads of dawn light, woven into a mysterious beauty.

She stood up, leaning on her wooden staff, slowly walking toward the top of the tower. The stairs creaked, each step like a questioning of the past. The top was empty, wind gusting in through the broken windows, making her shawl flutter loudly. She walked to the iron frame, looking down at the sea of fog, murmuring softly, "The light you spoke of, where is it?" Her gaze pierced through the mist, falling on the distant ruins where a faint blue shadow was barely visible, like a scarf, like a memory, like a person who had not returned.

The light of the oil lamp flickered behind her, the golden-orange warmth intertwining with the silver-gray cold mist, casting a blurred halo of light. The lighthouse remained silent, guarding its secret, guarding the traces left by that young man. The waves murmured, the mist whispered, time froze in this moment, as if nothing had ended.