Letters to the Lighthouse

Mara Reyes smelled salt before she saw the harbor. The bus uncurled down the cliff road and the town lay ahead like a memory half-remembered: gray roofs, a crooked pier, and the lighthouse standing stubbornly at the mouth of the bay, its white paint peeled to silver wood. She pressed her palm to the fogged window and watched gulls stitch the air. Her fingers remembered the lighthouse as if it were an old bruise—where she had learned to climb and to listen to the sea the way other children learned prayers.

She had left Port Solace five years earlier with a portfolio and an irritation for small-town nostalgia. At twenty-four she had been proud of neat lines and permit stamps; at twenty-four she returned with a single-woman box of tools and a letter that smelled of cedar and her grandmother's ink. The letter said little that mattered at first: a map scribbled on the back of a grocery receipt and the sentence, 'For when you can't find the shore on your own.' It was enough.

The bus driver helped with the luggage. He had the kind of hands that looked like they'd mended nets and engines and hurt feelings, and he squinted at her like everyone who'd stayed a long time in one place does. 'Port Solace'll be glad to have you back, Miss Mara,' he said. The line in his voice suggested he also meant something he wouldn't say aloud—an old apology, a shared loss. Mara found herself smiling without meaning to. Smiles were easier here, or perhaps simpler.

She walked up the town's main street with her canvas bag slung over her shoulder. Doorways were bright with potted geraniums; the bakery sent a warm current of cinnamon and sugar; a bell chimed in a church she hadn't known existed. People nodded as she passed—teachers, fishermen, a man who sold cuttlefish from a trailer—and in every face she saw the slow cartography of years. She felt like the outsider who had inherited the center of the map.

At the lane that led to the lighthouse, the air changed. Wind tasted like iron and boiled seaweed. The path was soft underfoot from late summer wash, and gulls argued over a scrap of net. The lighthouse itself was worse than she had expected: one window boarded, a stair handrail sagging, paint flaking like skin. On the low fence a rusted sign hung: BEACON HOUSE — PRIVATE PROPERTY.

Mara set her bag down and ran a hand along the railing. The wood was rough and full of memory, but it held. It occurred to her, with sharp and not wholly unwelcome surprise, that the building was not so far from her own hands. She had always loved mending things. Even in the city, when long hours had made her knuckles ache, she had loved the quiet satisfaction of taking something broken and returning it to use.