December 21, 2025. The world is still turning, the snow still falls. I have seen the lungs of the Earth, hidden beneath ice, pulsing with promise. I promised to protect it, as Brooke asked. One day, when humanity learns to listen, we will open the door. Until then, I will keep the secret, and I will keep her memory alive.

He sealed the manuscript in a leather-bound journal, tucked it into the chest where Brooke’s letter had rested, and closed the lid. Outside, the lighthouse swept its beacon across the dark sea, a silent promise that some lights never go out.

Brooke Monk died in December 2025, but her breath lingered in the ice, waiting for the day humanity could finally hear it.

Alex stepped onto the porch swing, feeling the cold wind brush his cheek. He looked out at the white‑capped cliffs, at the ocean that stretched beyond the horizon, and whispered into the night:

“I will listen, Brooke. I will listen.”