The Watcher at the Edge

The iron lantern groans against the gale, a sudden shudder in the winding stair. Beyond the glass, the ocean loses form, a churning dark that swallows up the sky.

Salt crusts upon the windows like a frost, obscuring ships that might be lost tonight. I trim the wick and watch the oil burn down, a tiny sun suspended in the void.

The wind has voices now, it sings and howls, a chorus born of water and of stone. I am the only anchor left to them, a beacon burning on the final shore.

Morning will bring a scattered line of kelp, and bruised grey clouds retreating to the east. But now, the tempest holds the world in thrall, and I am nothing but this steady light.