11
Author: Tobias Grant
The sea was calm the night my father died. That was the cruelest part. No storm, no waves crashing against the rocks — just silence.
He had tended the lighthouse for forty years, lighting the lamp each dusk without fail. When I took over, I found his last entry in the logbook: “Light steady. Clouds clearing.”
At first, I thought I saw his shadow sometimes in the lantern room. But one night, as I polished the lens, the beacon flickered. For a moment, his reflection stood beside mine. Weathered, smiling, proud.
The sea has never frightened me since. Some lights, once lit, never truly go out.
