Was it the fingerprints? Was it a strand of hair? Was it some darned mechanism left at the mariner? How could they possibly know?

Mouth widening and eyes like saucers, she stood on the edge of the world, the lighthouse lamp resonating an ethereal flicker. In the corner, a scarred raincoat (too big for any mortal human), metallic boots with a hydraulic system and prosthetic hook wedged in between two wooden slats.

Her face grew more desperate. The groan of the tired breaks echoed. She clenched and unclenched her fists. The thud of the panel door reverberated. The howl of a canine. Her feet cemented to the spot. An audible burst of ‘jinkees’ and ‘ahh Scoob old buddy’ wavered in the air. She fell into deep brooding thought, like a widow on a walkway.

What was she to do? How could she bring more light to this dark place?

A door handle creaked a familiar creak. Those pesky teenagers. Those meddling kids!