The Lighthouse Keeper's Inventory

He counts what the tide leaves behind: a button of bone, a length of green rope, the jaw of something that once knew the dark.

The lamp turns above him like a slow thought. Salt has eaten the hinges of the door, the photograph of his mother, the word *home* he carved once into the railing, just to test it.

Some nights the gulls come close enough to read. Their eyes are small black coins spent on nothing he can name. He pays them anyway, in crumbs, in patience.

The boats are lit and far. He waves the way one waves at a passing train— not to be seen, but to confirm the hand still answers when called.

By morning the fog has rewritten the cliffs. He logs the weather, the hours, the silence, and signs his name in a hand he no longer quite recognizes, but trusts.