Elara inherited Seaglass Nook, a damp cottage in misty Port Ghalain, from a quiet great-uncle. Seeking refuge from city noise, she found only the house’s groans and the unsettling silence of the weathered locals. Their curt nods and talk of tides hinted at shared secrets – whispers of "the turning" or "the deep chime."

In the attic, a locked trunk held not treasure, but mysteries: tide charts marked with strange symbols, a compass whose needle ignored North, spinning wildly before pointing steadfastly out to sea, and a Möbius strip sculpture of a bizarrely light, warm metal that seemed to drink the light.

Holding the strip sent a faint thrum up Elara’s arm. Afterwards, she saw the chart symbols subtly etched on doorframes around town. The foghorn sometimes seemed to carry a hidden, complex harmony. The townsfolk watched her more intently, their silence heavier.

One evening, compelled by an unknown urge, she took the compass and strip to the cove at low tide. The compass needle spun, then locked onto a point far out at sea. The metal strip grew warmer, vibrating in her hand. From the shadows emerged Old Man Hemlock, the town's netmender.

"The tide's pulling strong," he rasped, unsurprised to see her. "Some things answer its call. Silas listened." He glanced at the strip. "That helps focus the… resonance. He found it after the storm, the one that took a ship but left her bell ashore, ringing." Hemlock gestured seaward. "The chime… it demands attention. You hear it when it's time. Or when it decides." He offered no more, melting back into the mist.

Alone, Elara felt the metal pulse. The foghorn blew, and for a breath, she thought she heard it – a deep, resonant tone beneath the blast, like a colossal bell struck miles below the waves, vibrating through her bones before vanishing.

Back in the cottage, the strip was cool, the compass inert. The drizzle continued. Nothing felt resolved. What was the chime? What power did the metal strip hold, and what was its connection to the sea and the symbols? What had Silas truly been involved with? Did Hemlock and the others know more, or was it just folklore spun from mist and sea spray? Had she truly heard anything on the beach? Staring into the grey damp, Elara was adrift in unanswered questions, the town’s silence now echoing with possibilities she couldn't grasp. What, if anything, was meant to happen?