The Keeper's Vigil

Joseph Moore's spectacles caught Oban harbor's gray December light as he settled into the overstuffed chair. Margaret Ducat's parlor smelled of damp wool and old tea.

The locked tin sat between them on the table. Margaret's fingers drummed against its lid—metallic clicks marking each nervous beat.

"The evidence suggests a prosaic explanation," Joseph said.

He extracted his leather notebook from his left pocket. Set it beside the tin with methodical care.

"Let us examine the facts rationally."

Margaret's Highland lilt thickened. "Ye ken nothing of what waits there, Mr. Moore."

She touched her wedding ring. Once. Twice.

"My James... mind you, he was rational too. Before—"

The sentence died unfinished. Margaret wrapped her shawl tighter despite the parlor's stuffiness.

Joseph adjusted his spectacles. "Superintendent Muirhead has reviewed my qualifications."

"Robert Muirhead sees what he wishes to see."

Margaret's eye contact turned intense. Unsettling.

"The Board needs this closed. Tidy. That is not the same as truth."

Footsteps echoed on the cottage's stone path. Robert Muirhead's authoritative knock rattled the door.

Margaret rose slowly. Her hand lingered on the tea tin before she moved to answer.

Robert entered with his spine rigid, shoulders back. Behind him shuffled a gaunt young man whose fingers worked rope into anxious knots.

"Mr. Moore." Robert's Edinburgh accent filled the parlor. "May I present William Ross. Your assistant for this assignment."

William's eyes found the floor. "Sir."

The rope whispered between his palms—fibrous, insistent.

"Board policy requires two keepers minimum," Robert continued.

He steepled his fingers. The gesture that meant discussion ended.

Joseph noted William's positioning near the doorway. His weight already shifting toward escape.

"Mr. Ross comes highly recommended," Robert said.

William's knuckles whitened on the rope. "My family—the wages, sir. Double standard rate."

"Precisely." Robert removed his spectacles. Polished them with elaborate care.

"The compensation reflects the posting's remoteness. Nothing more."

Margaret's voice cut quiet but sharp. "Tell him about the logbooks."

Robert's jaw tightened. "The investigation concluded accidental circumstances."

"The final entries—"

"Showed nothing but weather observations and routine maintenance records."

Robert replaced his spectacles. The signal clear.

"Surely you're not suggesting supernatural elements, Mrs. Ducat?"

Margaret's shoulders slumped. The paralysis Joseph didn't understand yet settled over her.

She sank back into her chair. Touched the tea tin again.

Joseph stood. Extended his hand to William.

"We leave with the morning tide."

William's palm was calloused, damp. His grip brief.

"Yes, sir."

The pocket watch on Margaret's mantle caught Joseph's eye. Its hands frozen at 2:47 AM.

"An heirloom?" he asked.

Margaret's fingers found her wedding ring. "James's. It stopped the night—"

She left it unfinished again.

Robert cleared his throat. "The Board expects daily log entries. Standard protocol. Professional standards maintained throughout."

He produced documents from his leather case. Set them on the table beside the tin with businesslike precision.

Joseph signed where indicated. His hand steady.

William signed last. His signature trembled slightly across the page.

"Excellent." Robert gathered the papers. "The tender departs oh-seven-hundred hours. Pier four."

He moved toward the door. His rigid posture unchanged.

William followed immediately. Positioning himself at the threshold.

Joseph paused. Turned back to Margaret.

"Is there something you wish to tell me?"

Her Highland accent softened to almost a whisper. "The calling comes strongest near solstice."

"The calling?"

"Ye'll ken it when ye hear it. Mind you—" Her voice caught. "Mind you choose carefully what knowledge ye pursue."

Joseph's weight shifted to his back foot. Unconscious retreat.

"I appreciate your concern, Mrs. Ducat. But rational investigation requires—"

"My James was rational." Margaret's eyes held his. "Until he wasn't."

The tea tin sat between them. Its contents burned but preserved.

Joseph touched the brim of his hat. "Good day."

He stepped into the December cold. The door closed behind him with finality.

Margaret stood alone in her grief-soaked parlor. The curtains remained drawn against Oban harbor's view.

She opened the tea tin. James's charred journal pages lay inside—impossible geometries sketched in her dead husband's hand.

The pocket watch ticked its frozen seconds. 2:47. 2:47. 2:47.

Outside, three men walked toward the docks. Joseph's confidence unshaken.

William's rope whispered nervous prayers between his fingers. Robert's spine stayed rigid.

None of them looked back.

Margaret closed the tin with a metallic click. Locked it.

Some warnings cannot be spoken. Only witnessed.

The harbor fog swallowed them whole.