The Granite Pulse

The salt-crust hardens on the glass, a thousand shattered mirrors catching the bruised purple of a sky in collapse, where the wind is a solid weight.

Between the rhythmic white sweeps, the tower hums a low, stony note, anchored deep in the teeth of the reef, indifferent to the frantic pull of the tide.

Morning will find the iron railings bent, a gift of tangled kelp left at the door, but the lens remains clear, a glass eye staring down the ghosts of the gale.