The old typewriter on the attic shelf caught my eye first. Its brass keys were tarnished, the red ribbon frayed at the end. I'd been sorting through my grandmother's belongings for weeks, but this machine remained untouched until last Tuesday. When I lifted it, dust motes swirled in the slanted afternoon light. Beneath the keys, a creased envelope lay nestled between the inkwell and a stack of yellowed letters.

My fingers brushed the envelope's scalloped edges. The postmark read July 1947, a date I recognized from family lore. My grandmother had been twelve that summer, fresh off the boat from Liverpool. The address on the front was written in looping script: "The Willows, Rye Beach." I'd never been there, though stories claimed it was a crumbling Victorian house on the cliffs. My mother always warned me about the place, saying the sea took more than just lives there.

That night, I unfolded the envelope. Inside was a single photo of a girl in a white dress, her hair tied with a blue ribbon. She held a seashell to her ear, smiling at the camera. The paper was brittle, edges curling like the sea foam my grandmother used to collect. My breath caught when I noticed the date on the back: July 12, 1947. The girl in the photo was exactly the same age my grandmother had been when she disappeared.

I printed the photo the next morning at the community center. The machine jammed twice, spitting out ink streaks that looked like splashed blood. The printed image was clearer now, revealing the house in the background. The Willows. The same name scrawled on the envelope. The girl's eyes held an odd brightness, as if she were peering through time.

By Wednesday, I'd mapped out the old address. Rye Beach was a half-hour drive from my apartment, past rusted fishing trawlers and a lighthouse that never shone. The house was gone now, replaced by a parking lot and a fast-food joint. But the cliffside had a jagged scar where the building once stood, and the sea below churned with the same gray-green color I'd seen in the photo.

I found a rusted anchor embedded in the rocks, its chain tangled with seaweed. The metal was cold to the touch, but when I lifted it, a piece of fabric fell out. It was a fragment of the girl's dress, the blue ribbon still intact. My phone flashlight revealed faint writing on the inside hem: "Help me." The date: July 12, 1947.

That evening, I drove back to the cliffside. The parking lot lights flickered, casting long shadows over the empty lot. The sea was calm, the waves gentle as they crashed against the empty foundation. I stood there for twenty minutes, listening to the tide, the wind, the distant call of gulls. Then I waded into the water until the saltwater reached my waist.

The anchor felt heavier in my hands when I dropped it into the deep. The fabric fragment clung to my fingers as I submerged, the water turning icy. Below me, the photo's girl appeared again, floating in the dark. Her dress was tattered, her skin pale, but her eyes still held that same strange brightness. She reached out, and my hand met hers.

The world around me blurred. I saw my grandmother as a girl, standing on the same cliffside, her hair whirling in the wind. She screamed, and the house collapsed behind her. The sea swallowed her whole, taking the photo and the anchor with her. Then I was back in the present, gasping for air, the anchor clutched in my fist.

The next morning, I called the local historical society. They confirmed the house had been demolished in 1952 after structural engineers declared it unsafe. No bodies were ever recovered. The photo was listed in a 1948 newspaper as lost property, but no one claimed it. The anchor was found years later by divers, its chain still tangled with seaweed.

I kept the photo and the fabric fragment in a glass jar on my windowsill. Sometimes, when the wind howls through the trees at midnight, I swear I hear a girl's laughter echoing from the sea. But I don't tell anyone. Not my friends, not my mother, not the police. Some mysteries are better left untouched, I think, as the tide washes away the secrets of the cliffs.