They come before dawn. One by one, wrapped in neoprene or nothing at all. Heads bowed, shoulders hunched. Like pilgrims. Like offerings. Their breath cuts vapour trails across the water’s edge. No one speaks.

They still call him The Lifeguard, though no one remembers his name. Not really. There are rumours—always are—whispers that it was something like "Joanston" or "Tonis", maybe "Guarder". Doesn't matter. He’s out there every summer, perched atop that ancient red lookout, the one welded to rusted scaffolding, bolted into the cracked promenade like a warning.

The keeper’s log had no date. Not anymore. Time had collapsed into tides and tremors, and the chromed skymap above Fort Perch was no longer