The lighthouse at Kommetjie Bay had not been lit in thirty years, but Elsabé Fourie still had a key. Nobody had asked for it back when she retired, and she had never offered. On the first Monday of winter she climbed the hundred and four steps with a flask of rooibos and a torch, meaning only to look at the sea. The ledger was wedged behind the lamp housing, wrapped in oilcloth gone stiff with salt. Its pages were ruled in faded blue, the columns headed in a careful copperplate: Vessel. Port of origin. Expected. Arrived. Eleven ships were listed. Not one of them had a date in the last column. Elsabé knew every vessel that had come into the bay since 1971; she had stamped their papers herself. She had never heard of a single one of these.