Elena stepped out of her car, the salty air whipping around her as she looked up at the imposing silhouette of the old lighthouse. The sky was a canvas of swirling grays, with waves crashing relentlessly against the rocky shore. "This is where the stories began," she muttered to herself, clutching her notebook tightly.
Inside, the lighthouse was a labyrinth of shadows and echoes. Each step Elena took reverberated through the empty halls, as if the structure itself was alive, breathing with secrets. She paused, noticing the faded photographs lining the walls—faces of those who had vanished, their eyes hauntingly vivid. "What happened to you all?" she wondered aloud.
In a forgotten room, a dusty journal lay waiting on an old wooden desk. Elena opened it gingerly, the pages brittle with age. Her eyes widened as she read the entries, detailing strange sightings and ghostly whispers. Her heart raced with each revelation, the line between fact and folklore blurring. "Could these voices be real?" she whispered to herself.
