Morning Commute
Every sunrise I pull onto Highway 26, Maya’s coffee cup steaming in the passenger seat, and the oak‑lined road stretches out like a quiet promise.
She always sighs when the sign for “Willow Creek Road” flickers into view, knowing the tower will appear just beyond the bend.
The glass‑fronted column stands upright, a stark silhouette against the mist, its transparent base staring back at the driveway like an unblinking eye.
Maya rolls her neck, mutters about “that stupid thing again,” and taps the steering wheel in irritation.
I watch the sunlight catch the glass, casting a faint prism onto the asphalt, and wonder why anyone would build a 15‑foot tower with a window that faces a private path.
She glances at me, eyebrows raised, asking, “Did you finally figure out what it is?”
I shake my head, half‑laughing, “Probably just some weird art project.”
She snorts, “Or a birdhouse for freaks.” The car hums past, the tower shrinking into the distance, but the feeling lingers, a question humming at the back of my mind.
Later, as the city skyline approaches, I replay the scene in my head, noting the way the glass seemed to pulse with the rhythm of the road.
Coffee Shop Conversation
At the corner café, the scent of fresh beans mingles with rain‑soaked pine, and Sam greets me with a nod.
“Morning, Alex. The usual?” he asks, sliding a mug across the counter.
I smile, “Yeah, thanks. Have you heard anything about that tower on Willow Creek?”
Sam leans in, voice low, “Ah, that old thing. Folks around here say it was built by Lena, the reclusive artist who lived on the property a few years back.”
“Lena?” I repeat, feeling the name echo.
He nods, eyes distant. “She was a bit of a mystic, painted pictures that seemed to capture memories she never lived. After a fire ripped her house apart, she vanished. Before she left, she erected that tower—claimed it was a ‘memory beacon’ to hold onto the past.”
I sip the coffee, the bitterness matching the sudden curiosity that spikes my pulse.
“Did she ever explain what the beacon does?” I ask.
Sam shrugs, “She talked about it like the tower would reflect moments, like a mirror for lost time. Some say she programmed it to pulse with the heartbeat of anyone who passes.”
A sudden hiss of static crackles over the shop’s old speaker. The lights flicker, then plunge the room into darkness.
In the brief blackout, the glass of the tower, visible through the café’s front window, shatters with a deafening crack.
Behind the broken pane, a hidden hatch glows faintly, and a low, ominous humming begins to fill the air.
