The sea had taken almost everything from Elias—his wife, his youth, his hearing in one ear. But it hadn’t taken the lighthouse.
Every evening, as the wind howled and waves slammed against the rocky shore, Elias climbed the narrow spiral staircase to the top. The light, old and stubborn, flickered to life under his careful touch. It had been fifty years since he first turned it on, a nervous twenty-year-old with salt in his blood and dreams too big for a village this small.
Tonight was different. He felt it in his bones. The horizon was thick with mist, and the air carried an unease that had nothing to do with weather.
As he stared out to sea, he saw a faint shape—a sail, tattered and black. It drifted, unnaturally still, toward the shore. No crew. No sound. Just a presence.
Elias lit the signal flare and rang the ancient warning bell, though he knew no one else would hear. The village was long abandoned, swallowed by time and tides. Only he remained, stubborn as the rocks beneath him.
The ghost ship came no closer, but did not turn away. It hovered in the mist like a question left unanswered.
When the sun rose, the ship was gone. But on the railing of the lighthouse, wet with dew, a single seashell sat—one Elias recognized. His wife’s favorite. The one she had kept in her pocket the day the sea took her.
Elias smiled.
“I see you,” he whispered. And for the first time in years, he didn’t feel alone.