The Salt-Crusted Eye

The tide arrives with iron fists, kneading the basalt until it groans. The lantern room, a steady pulse, refuses the invitation of the dark.

White spray climbs the spiraled stone, reaching for the glass with frozen claws. Inside, the clockwork hums its tune, a tethered heart against the gale.

When morning pulls the velvet back, the tower stands in salt-caked robes. It blinks once more at the receding crests, weary, but anchored to the world.