Legends of the Waning Lighthouse

— Did you order a miracle?

She seemed to want to confirm she had the right number, or perhaps that I hadn't changed my mind. Although only 5 minutes had passed since I visited the "Come to Us - for Miracles" website.

— You react quickly, — I replied. — In this day and age, that's a miracle in itself.

The girl relaxed and even smiled. — And how did you find out about us? We only launched this service on our website yesterday.

— A friend recommended you. He was at your presentation, got a discount card for advising three friends to you. I'm one of them. I received your text message and followed the link to the site. Do you need my personal data?

— I already have it; I'll just check if we have everything correct. Tom Green, 35, from New Haven. Not married.

— That's all correct, — I confirmed.

— Have you familiarized yourself with the pricing? — my conversationalist asked in a friendly manner.

— Yes, thank you. The price is fine with me. And what is your name?

— Veronica, — the girl replied with a sweet smile.

— You know, — I replied, — it's already a miracle that you and I are speaking.

Veronica fell silent for a moment, and Tom heard her let out a soft sigh. It seemed his words had broken her professional demeanor.

— Tom... — her voice no longer sounded so official; warm notes had appeared in it. — You are very kind. But I still must complete the order. Otherwise, our system won't launch... well, the process itself.

— Of course, sorry, — Tom said hastily, afraid the conversation would now end. — I'm ready.

— So, — Veronica had apparently returned to her monitor. — Order number 884-B. Category: "Everyday Miracles." Request: "To find what I have lost, but I don't know what it is." Correct?

Tom was slightly embarrassed. — Yes. It probably sounds strange? I was just... I was sitting at work, looking out the window, and I felt like I was missing something. Something important, but I couldn't remember what. And then your text arrived. I decided it was a sign.

— That is the best order formulation we've had all week, — Veronica answered seriously. — Usually, they ask to "win the lottery" or "get an ex back." Boring. Your request is a challenge for our creative department.

— You have a creative department? — Tom chuckled.

— Of course! — she laughed. — Miracles aren't generated by algorithms, Tom. They require an individual approach. And so, the order is activated.

— And what now? Should I expect a courier with a package?

— We work more elegantly. The miracle will be integrated into your reality within forty-eight hours. The main thing is to be open. Don't look for it specifically, but don't miss it either. It might not be what you expect.

— Alright. Thank you, Veronica.

— Thank you for your order, Tom. Have a good day.

— And you...

She hung up.

Tom lowered the phone and stared at it for a few seconds. The silence of the apartment seemed deafening. He had expected anything — skepticism, disappointment, the feeling of being "had." But instead, he felt a strange excitement. And more than anything in the world, he wanted to hear her voice again.

He spent the rest of the day in a fog. The next day he went to work (he was a restorer in a small gallery), but everything fell from his hands. He wasn't looking for a miracle. He was looking for an excuse to call her again. But what? "Hello, my miracle hasn't arrived yet?"

In the evening, he was returning home in a light rain. Evenings in New Haven were often damp and dreary. He stopped at the window of an old bookstore he hadn't entered in years. Just to wait out the rain.

Inside, it smelled of dust and old wood. An elderly owner dozed behind the counter. Tom wandered aimlessly between the shelves until he stumbled upon the poetry section. And there, on the bottom shelf, he saw it. A thin book in a faded blue cover. "Legends of the Waning Lighthouse."

He flushed with heat.

It was the book his grandfather had read to him as a child. He had completely forgotten about it. The book had been lost long ago during moves. He was sure it was no longer in print. Tom carefully picked up the volume. On the first page, someone's neat handwriting had inscribed: "To him who seeks the light."

His heart was pounding. Was this it? "To find what I have lost"? Tom bought the book and ran out into the street, no longer noticing the rain.

Once home, without even taking off his coat, he found the number for "Come to Us - for Miracles."

— Support service, Veronica speaking.

— Veronica! It's Tom. Tom Green.

— Tom? — surprise sounded in her voice. — Did something happen? Did the miracle not work?

— It... it worked! — he exhaled. — I found the book. The book from my childhood. I didn't even know I was looking for it. How did you do it?

There was silence on the other end of the line.

— A book? — Veronica finally asked, and there was... confusion in her voice.

— "Legends of the Waning Lighthouse"! With a dedicatory inscription! — he reported joyfully.

— Tom... — Veronica spoke slowly. — Your order hasn't even gone into processing yet. It's in the queue for tomorrow morning.

Tom froze.

— How... how has it not? But the book...

— It wasn't us, — Veronica said softly. — It seems that was... you know, a free miracle. From the Universe. It happens when a person starts to be "open." You attracted it yourself.

Tom sat down on a chair in the hallway. He wasn't disappointed. He was stunned.

— So, — he uttered, — my real miracle... is still to come?

— It seems so, — Veronica confirmed.

— Veronica, — Tom said, suddenly making a decision. — Cancel the order.

— What? But why?

— Because I think I've realized what I actually lost. Not a book. But this feeling... of anticipation. And something else.

— And what is that? — her voice became quiet, almost a whisper. — Courage, — said Tom.

— Veronica, can I use my order not for "finding what was lost," but for... a "meeting"?

— A "meeting"? That's also a popular category. Who do you want to meet?

— You, — said Tom. — I don't know what you look like, but for some reason, I'm sure this is the most important miracle I need.

Veronica fell silent again. This time the pause was so long that Tom feared she had hung up.

— Tom, — she finally said, and laughter trembled in her voice, — this... this is strictly against company rules.

— But you yourself said that miracles require a creative approach, — he parried. — And I am your "golden" client.

—...Alright, — she gave in. — But this won't be an official order. This will be a personal initiative.

— I agree!

— The "Old Owl" cafe on Church Street. In an hour.

— I'll be there. Veronica?

— Yes?

— Thank you. That really was a quick reaction.

— In this day and age, — she picked up with a smile, — that is a miracle in itself. 

The "Old Owl" cafe turned out to be exactly as Tom had imagined it: dark wood, lamps with shades, a smell of cinnamon, and quiet, barely perceptible jazz music. He sat at a table by the window, placing "Legends of the Waning Lighthouse" beside him.

Tom was nervous. What would he say? "Hi, I'm that strange client with the order-for-I-don't-know-what"?

Ten minutes passed. Fifteen. Every woman who entered the cafe made his heart jump. But they all walked past. He was already beginning to think it had just been a polite refusal when the bell above the door tinkled again.

She entered, shaking raindrops from her umbrella. She was... ordinary. Not a model, not a sorceress from a fairytale. Dark hair gathered in a messy bun, attentive brown eyes that were now anxiously scanning the room. She didn't look like the voice on the phone. The voice had seemed older, more confident.

She noticed him and the book on the table, smiled uncertainly, and approached.

— Tom?

— Veronica?

They stared at each other.

— You... — Tom began.

— I... — she began at the same time. They laughed. The awkwardness instantly vanished.

— Sorry, — she said, sitting opposite him. — I thought you'd be... older. Your voice on the phone is so... authoritative.

— And I pictured you... I don't know. In robes? — he joked. — Thank you for agreeing to this. I know this is probably against the rules.

— This is completely out of line, — Veronica laughed. — If my supervisor finds out, I'll be transferred to the "Lost Socks" department. And that's deadly dull.

They ordered coffee. The conversation flowed on its own — about the book, about Veronica's strange job (she called it "logistics of the intangible"), about the restoration work Tom did. And the more they talked, the stranger things became around them.

First, Tom noticed that the withered rose in the vase on their table suddenly lifted its head and bloomed a little fuller.

Then Veronica blinked and looked at her cup.

— Strange, — she murmured. — I asked for a latte with no sugar. But it's sweet. Perfectly sweet.

— And my "Americano"... — Tom took a sip. — It seems to have notes of... nut? Though I just ordered a regular one.

They looked at each other.

— Is your company playing tricks? — Tom asked with a smile.

— No, — Veronica shook her head, her eyes widening. — Our "creative department" only works on prepayment. This is... something else.

They fell silent, listening. The jazz melody playing in the background suddenly faltered and then flowed more clearly, as if it were being played live right behind them, even though there was no piano or musicians in the cafe.

— Okay, — Tom said, lowering his voice. — This is strange. But it's nice.

— Very, — Veronica agreed.

They talked for another hour. It turned out they both adored old lighthouses. It turned out they both had dreamed of finding a lost city as children. It turned out they both felt as if they had been waiting their whole lives for something they couldn't quite name.

— Amazing, — said Tom. — I feel like... I've known you before.

— I have the same feeling, — Veronica whispered. — Tom... remember your order? "To find what I have lost, but I don't know what it is."

— Yes. And I thought it was the book.

— And then you decided it was me, — she smiled.

— And now... — he faltered.

— And now, — she said softly, — I think we've both found something.

They left the cafe. The rain had stopped. The street was empty and bathed in a strange, pearlescent light, though the sun had set long ago. The streetlights burned unusually bright.

— Thank you for the evening, Veronica, — Tom said, unwilling to let go of her hand, which he had taken to help her down the step.

— Thank you, Tom. It was... magical.

She looked at him, then at the book in his hand.

— May I? — she took the volume of "Legends of the Waning Lighthouse." She opened the first page.

The inscription he had seen that afternoon — "To him who seeks the light" — had vanished. In its place, in the same neat handwriting, it now read:

"Tom, Veronica. Stop hiding. We found you. Come back. Order 884-B is closed. — The Creative Department."

Tom stared at Veronica, stunned. She didn't look surprised. She looked as if she had remembered something.

— So that's what we lost, — she whispered, looking not at Tom, but somewhere through him.

— What? — he asked, feeling a chill run down his spine.

— Our memory, Tom.

She raised her free hand, and the air next to her rippled, as if from heat. She was not a call center operator. And he was not a restorer. Those were just roles they had invented for themselves, to hide.

— They found us after all, — she said with a hint of annoyance, but her eyes were laughing. — Our game of "being ordinary" is over.

— Who are "they"? — Tom desperately tried to hold on to his slipping reality. "New Haven," the gallery, his apartment... it all suddenly seemed like a stage set.

— The ones we ran from, — Veronica shrugged, and at that moment her appearance began to change. Her simple jacket and jeans flowed like watercolor, replaced by a garment of shimmering light. 

— You were always bad at hide-and-seek, my love.

She stepped toward him and touched his forehead with her fingers. And then Tom Green remembered everything.

He remembered his real home among the stars, the war they had lost, and the desperate escape to this quiet, "analog" world where their magic didn't resonate so strongly. He remembered how they themselves had divided their memories and powers, hiding them in "miracles" for others, so their enemies wouldn't find them.

The "Come to Us - for Miracles" website was their own creation, their anchor. And the book... the book was the key he had left for himself.

— Veronica... — he breathed, recognizing her. He saw her truly now. — So... none of this was in vain.

— Of course not, — she took his hand. — We had a nice rest. But it's time to go home. I believe a rematch awaits us.

Veronica snapped her fingers. The streetlights on Church Street burst simultaneously, showering the asphalt with sparks, and in the ensuing darkness, the only light came from two figures dissolving into a pillar of pearlescent light, ascending into the rainless New Haven sky.

Below, on the wet pavement, only a small discount card remained, bearing the inscription: "Come to Us - for Miracles."