The Keeper

The lighthouse had no name. Neither did its keeper — not anymore.

She climbed the iron staircase every evening at half past five, her boots ringing against steps that had been worn smooth by a century of feet before hers. The lantern room smelled of salt and old brass, and when she lit the flame, it threw her shadow long against the curved glass.

“There are no ships,” the inspector had told her, the last time anyone from the mainland bothered to visit. “Haven’t been for years. You’re keeping a light for no one.”

She had smiled at that. He was wrong, of course. He just couldn’t see them.