In the winter of 2017, Luna spent a week in the coastal town of Pender's Point, Massachusetts, housesitting for a retired lighthouse keeper she'd never met. The keeper, Silas Quinn, had died three months before she arrived. The house was a low-slung clapboard cottage facing the sea, its windows filmed with salt and its rooms full of ticking clocks and unread mail. On the second night, Luna found a locked trapdoor in the pantry floor. She opened it. Below was a single dry-docked rowboat, a dozen glass jars of something dark and viscous, and a logbook written in a shorthand she could almost read. Each jar was dated. The most recent was four weeks after Quinn's death. This is the story of what she found in the jars, and what she heard when she held one to her ear in a room with no windows.
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