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When the festival bell fails and the town’s time chest vanishes, 10-year-old Nila follows salt-ink riddles with a stormglass lens, a magpie, and her friends. Together they outsmart a schemer, protect nesting swallows, and help Brindle Bay choose kindness over noise—uncovering promises hidden in plain sight.
Nila Ortega woke to the smell of warm bread and the hush of the early harbor. The windows in her tiny room glowed pink, and gulls were already arguing over fish heads on the quay. She slid from bed and pressed her cheek to the glass. The lighthouse stood at the far curve of Brindle Bay, pale and tall, its lantern hood catching the first light like a coin. A moment later the bell on the bakery door clinked, and her mother called up the stairs.
“Hands washed, eyes open,” Mama said. “Festival day needs fast fingers.”
Nila raced down. The bakery, Salt & Sun, was a cave of good smells. Loaves crackled, apricot glaze gleamed on tarts, and steam fogged the display. Finn Whitby, who lived two doors down and was Nila’s best friend for exactly three years and eight months, sat on a flour sack holding a tray of sea-salt cookies.
“Guess what I heard,” Finn said around a crumb. “They’re opening the old time chest at noon. The mayor’s going to ring the big bell.”
Nila’s eyes lit. “And read the letters?”
“That’s the rumor. A hundred years of secrets. My dad says there might be a map inside.”
Mama set a tray by the window and tapped Nila’s shoulder. “Fetch more napkins, and no running onto the pier after, you hear? The lighthouse stairs are for workers today.” She kissed her fingers and touched Nila’s forehead. “Promise?”
Nila nodded. She meant it, then. But promises have a way of bending when questions burn hotter than rules.
By nine, the cobblestone street outside churned with neighbors. Banners in sea-glass colors flickered from doorways. Mr. Tully, the mayor, adjusted his sash and shook hands. A fiddler tuned. Children chalked whales on the stones. Nila carried out baskets, greeting everyone by name, half listening to the town and half listening for something else, the small tick in her head that began when mysteries sniffed the air.
Patch, the magpie with a torn wing feather who liked shiny things and apricot glaze, fluttered to the sill and tapped the glass. He cocked his head at Nila, then the lighthouse, then back again like he was sharing a joke. She slid him a crumb. He took it and flew off, dropping a blink of reflected light across the square as he went.
Nila squinted after him. The light hit the base of the festival stage, and for an instant it looked like letters were swimming on the wood. She blinked, and they were gone. Strange, she thought, feeling that small tick grow louder.