The old lighthouse keeper's cottage clung to the cliff edge like a barnacle to a ship's hull. Inside, Martha pressed her face against the salt-stained window, watching the storm rage across the grey waters below. The wind howled through the gaps in the wooden walls, a mournful sound that seemed to echo her own loneliness.

She had been alone here for three months now, ever since her grandfather had passed away. The villagers had warned her about staying through the winter months. "It's no place for a young woman," they had muttered, shaking their heads disapprovingly. But Martha was stubborn. This cottage, perched precariously above the churning sea, was all she had left of him.

A sudden crash made her jump. Through the window, she could see that another section of the cliff had crumbled away, taking with it the old wooden fence that had marked the boundary of the garden. The cottage was now even closer to the edge. Martha's heart hammered against her ribs as she realised the terrible truth – the very ground beneath her feet was disappearing, piece by piece, into the hungry mouth of the ocean below.