The envelope showed up on a Tuesday, sea-blue and soft at the corners. The handwriting belonged to Theo, Mara's best friend from when she was eleven. Twenty years of silence, and now one line inside: "I found the map of Saltreach in my mom's attic. The lighthouse is still unfinished. Want to build it?" Mara sat down hard and read it three more times.

Mara typed a careful reply asking the question that had haunted her for years: why did Theo's family leave Saltreach overnight, without a word, the summer they were eleven? She hit send before she lost her nerve. An hour later three dots appeared. Then: "Come to Saltreach. I'll tell you everything in person. I promise."

Instead of waiting, Mara found Theo's old address still in her childhood diary and showed up at his door. He opened it stunned, then stepped aside. The whole hallway was covered in Saltreach photos, plus their crayon drawing, framed. "I never threw anything out," he admitted. "I just couldn't figure out how to come back to you."

Mara stayed late, and they talked in that hallway of old photos until the silence of twenty years felt small. Theo set the framed crayon drawing in her hands. "Come back to Saltreach. Let's finish it now." They drove out that weekend and got to work. By fall the lamp lit and held, and Mara hung the drawing by the door. "OURS," it still said.