The lighthouse stood on a cliff where the sea

had carved a hollow in the rock. No one lived in

the village now, just the keeper and the wind.

He woke each morning to the same routine: oil

the lens, check the logs, walk the perimeter.

His name was Fintan, but he did not remember how

he got there.

The first sign was the photograph. It lay

beneath the floorboards, wrapped in cloth. A

woman’s face, young, smiling. Her hand rested on

a child’s head. Fintan could not place her,

though something in her eyes felt familiar. He

kept it hidden, but the wind carried the scent

of salt and something else—burnt wood, old blood.

He began to forget things. The shape of his own

hands. The sound of his voice. He found a

journal by the window, pages filled with frantic

scrawl. Words like silence, drown, return. He

tried to read it, but the letters blurred. The

lighthouse had begun to feel like a prison.

One night, the power failed. The light went out.

Fintan climbed the tower, heart pounding. At the

top, he found a door he did not remember opening.

Beyond it, a room lined with mirrors. Each

reflected not his face, but a different version

of himself—older, younger, dead. He reached for

one, and the glass shattered. The shards cut his

palm, but no blood came. Only black smoke curled

from the wound.

He ran back down, but the village had changed.

The buildings were taller, the streets wider.

People moved like shadows, their faces blank. A

boy called out to him, “Da?” Fintan turned, but

the child was gone. The wind howled, carrying

voices—his own, but distorted.

He returned to the lighthouse, desperate for

answers. The journal had vanished. In its place,

a single line written in his own hand: They took

the light to keep the dark out. He lit the lamp,

and the beam swept across the sea. For the first

time, he saw something in the waves—a figure,

tall and still, watching.

The next morning, the villagers gathered at the

shore. They spoke of a man who had vanished

years ago, a man who had tried to save them.

Fintan stood among them, silent. The sea had

taken him once. Now it had given him back. But

the light would not stay on. It flickered, then

died. The wind rose, and the village fell quiet.

Fintan walked into the water, the tide pulling

him forward. The last thing he saw was the

lighthouse, its beam gone, its keeper lost.