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Meropide is a quiet town, about an hour northeast of anywhere anyone could find on a map. If they are being charitable, they call it quaint or unpretentious or charming, but when they’re honest, most people call it a podunk backwater that might as well be crowned the capital of Bumblefuck Nowhere. It had been much the same thirty years ago, just slightly less stooped and gray, but Wriothesley’s fading memories of the town don’t need much adjusting.
He likes the idea of quiet nowhere. Something like a ‘fresh start’ is a bit beyond him, but an early retirement to a tiny country town suits Wriothesley just fine, and that’s before he sees the lighthouse.