The sound came at midnight.
A low, distant clang. Not like a phone. Not like a car. Like something old. Rusted. Forgotten.
Ruhan sat up in bed instantly, heart racing.
Clang.
It came again.
He rushed to the window. The street was empty. No one was out. Not even the dogs were barking.
And yet the sound continued, soft but certain — like it was calling only him.
At school the next morning, he brought it up to Samaya.
"Did you hear it last night?" he asked, pushing aside his tray of food.
"The bell?" she whispered back.
His breath caught. "Yes."
She nodded. "It's started."
"What's started?"
Samaya leaned forward, lowering her voice. "You remember the lighthouse you keep drawing?"
He frowned. "I don't remember drawing it. It just… appears in my sketches. Like muscle memory."
"Because we've been there before," she said. "That bell rings when we're getting close. To the memory. To her."
Ruhan looked down at his hands. They were trembling.
"She's trying to call us," Samaya continued. "But the bell tolls only when the water's rising again."
They cut classes after lunch.
No words. Just a glance — and both of them were out the back gate, down the narrow path behind the school, and into the hills.
The sun glared down. Heat shimmered on the railway tracks. The walk was long, but their legs didn't tire.
Because the bell was louder now. Inside them.
Like a pulse.
The path twisted into the woods.
Ruhan remembered flashes: a green scarf tangled in the branches, wind pulling at someone's hair, a girl laughing too loud at a joke no one else heard.
But her name… still out of reach.
"Where are we going?" he asked.
"You'll remember when we get there," Samaya said.
They reached a clearing. Ruhan stopped.
There — hidden behind the thick curtain of trees — was a tower.
Old. Cracked. Covered in moss.
The lighthouse.
Not by the sea. Not anymore.
Just standing there in the middle of nowhere, like it had been yanked from a coastline and dropped into their past.
Ruhan took a step forward.
And the bell inside rang — deafening this time.
CLANG.
It wasn't sound. It was memory. Crashing into him like a wave.
He stumbled. Samaya caught him. "What did you see?"
"I…" His voice shook. "There were four of us. Not just you and me. There was a boy with a limp. And a girl in red... she..."
He paused. His voice cracked.
"She jumped."
Samaya's grip tightened. "Good. That means it's working."
"Good?" Ruhan nearly shouted. "She jumped, Samaya."
"I know," she whispered, pain in her eyes. "And we let her."
The wind howled through the trees. The bell rang once more, softer now — like it had said what it came to say.
Ruhan looked up at the tower. "I'm scared."
Samaya nodded. "Me too."
They stood in silence as the day darkened around them.
Below their feet, the grass trembled.
And inside the bell, something waited — patient and loud and aching to be remembered.