The Lighthouse That Sang Again

The morning wind at Seafall Cove tastes like salt and oranges from the market crates. You let the breeze push your hood back and balance on the low stone wall that traces the harbor. Gulls clatter and argue over a broken crab shell. Nets hang like sleepy cobwebs from masts. Beyond the curl of boats and the long arm of the pier rises the cliff, and at its tip stands the lighthouse. It should be blinking even in daylight, a slow, steady heartbeat of brightness. Today its glass eye looks pale.

You jump off the wall when Ida the baker waves. She dusts flour off her knuckles. "Pick-up or drop-off, quick steps?" she asks with a grin. The warm smell from her doorway fights the sharpness of seaweed and diesel.

"Just passing," you say, though your feet itch to run to the cliff path. The light never stops. At least, you have never seen it stop.

You watch the water. It wraps the harbor stones in foam. In the green between waves you see coins of sun, and for a second it feels like the whole cove is breathing with you. The lighthouse should blink. You count: one, two, three, like the timing Mr. Thorne once taught you on a school trip. He served as keeper until the automation. He stood by the railing and told stories of fog horns and storms. His voice scratched like rope, but his eyes were kind.

Now, you could go up the cliff path and check the brass gate everyone says is locked. You could shout to see if the echo answers. Or you could do the sensible thing and finish your morning chores. Your pockets hold three pebbles, a rubber band, a pencil stub, and a folded paper boat. You flick the rubber band at a gull feather and miss. Your chest hums like a hive.

Grandma Nora leans out of your small yellow house near the fish market and cups her hands. "Lunch in one hour. And wear your hat!"

You wave, and the hat is already on your head. You tug the brim and take the long way home past the old nets shed. Someone is inside. The door creaks. When you step close, there is the smell of oil and orange peel, and the slow tick-tock of something wound by hand. Mr. Thorne sits on a stool with a coil of copper wire on his knee. He glances up, half of his mouth smiling.

"Wind is turning," he says. "Weather folk say we might get a blow by evening. Keep your windows latched."

His eyes go past your shoulder to the lighthouse. You both look. The glass eye blinks, once. You feel the tiny ripple of relief settle like a stone sinking into a jar. Then a cloud smudges the sun. The blink is gone. Mr. Thorne looks down and twists the wire. You hear the tick-tock. You think about that hat he told you to wear, and a quiet thrill stirs. If there is a storm, the light will keep everyone safe. It always has.