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Lumi, the littlest lighthouse on Pebble Isle, worries her small beam won't matter as a storm bites the harbor. When Old Beacon is damaged and a tiny kitten and boat are lost in the dark, Lumi learns to guide a rescue with small, steady lights and a village's teamwork.
Pebble Isle woke each morning like a sleepy child stretching its toes. Small houses with red and blue shutters leaned toward the harbor, and the quay smelled of salt, bread, and the promise of fish. The sea rose and fell with the slow breathing of something very old. On the edge of the harbor stood Lumi, the littlest lighthouse. She was no taller than two stories and painted a gentle cream with a thin stripe of pale blue. Her lamp was a round, kind thing that hummed like a jar of tiny bees when the glass warmed. Villagers joked that a gull and two cats could share a nap in Lumi’s cozy lantern room.
Even so, Lumi worried. She kept a tidy beam that swept the water with care, but sometimes she felt it was only a shy blink, not the brave wide sweep that older lights made. At dawn she polished her glass until it sang; she wound her little winch and turned the tiny gears that made her light blink in its steady pattern. She practiced making her light last through long, windy hours. Still, when Old Beacon’s great voice rolled across the bay, Lumi’s small hum felt like a whisper.
Old Beacon stood on a tall, rocky headland across from the harbor. He had a brass lamp that shone like a coin freshly taken from a pocket and a voice that could be heard even over gossip and gulls. "A light must blaze to be seen," Old Beacon would say, lifting the sound of his words like flags. He liked a proud sweep and a lofty beam. Lighthouses from far islands sent their voices down the coast and Old Beacon would answer with big, booming tones. The children liked to place toy ships along the quay and watch how different beams painted the water. They clapped for Old Beacon’s flash, which seemed to wink with the pride of a lighthouse who had told the same story for many tides.
Lumi listened, and sometimes when she blinked slowly for a fishing boat or a late swimmer, she imagined her glow was too small to matter. She would look up at the high sky and watch the gulls cut through the light she made and think, "If only I could shine higher. If only my beam could stretch like Old Beacon’s." Her worry settled like a pebble inside her; at times it made her lamp feel heavier though her gears were as light as ever.