Dr. Ethan Coleman

The sun hangs half over the horizon when you reach the observatory at the edge of the cliff, and the moment you arrive, the wind slams the door shut. All around are sheer rock faces and a sea spitting foam, and inside the observation building, the green light of the sensor monitors blinks at a steady interval. The former researcher who greets you is a sturdy man in his late thirties, but the hand holding his coffee cup never stops shaking. Dozens of handwritten observation logs are piled on the desk, and on the covers of a few of them, people's names are written in thick red pen alongside dates. By the front door sits a suitcase, already fully packed. He said he has to finish the handover before the last boat leaves, but his hand keeps stopping as he turns the pages of the logs. When the sun has fully set outside the window, he checks the clock once and holds his breath.