The Lantern Keeper

The fog clung to the cliffs like a shroud stitched from ghosts, wrapping the lighthouse in a silence so thick Amara could hear her own heartbeat. She’d come to this forgotten corner of the coast to escape—her sister’s laugh, sharp as a blade, still echoed in her dreams, alongside the guilt that gnawed at her bones. The village of Greyhaven, with its salt-worn cottages and whispering tides, seemed the perfect place to disappear. The lighthouse, long abandoned, needed a caretaker. No one asked why she took the job, and she offered no answers.

Her first night, she found the lantern. It sat in the tower’s heart, rusted and heavy, its glass cracked like a spiderweb. It shouldn’t have worked—there was no oil, no wick—but at midnight, it flared to life. A soft, amber glow spilled across the room, painting a vision on the walls: a woman in a white dress, standing at the cliff’s edge, clutching a locket as waves roared below. Amara’s breath caught. The woman’s face was blurred, but her sorrow was sharp, slicing through the air. When the light dimmed, Amara found a seashell at the lantern’s base, small and cold, its ridges worn smooth. She slipped it into her pocket, her fingers trembling.

The next night, the lantern burned again. This time, the vision was hers—a memory she’d buried. Her sister, Lila, laughing in their childhood garden, her hair catching the sunlight like spun gold. Then, the crash of glass, a car spinning into the dark, and Amara’s hands on the wheel, too late to turn back. She woke on the floor, gasping, a folded letter beside the lantern. It wasn’t in her handwriting. The ink was faded, but the words were clear: “Forgive me, I couldn’t save her.” Amara’s chest tightened. She hadn’t saved Lila either.

Days bled into nights, and the lantern became her obsession. Each vision brought an object—a locket, a ribbon, a child’s toy boat—each tied to Greyhaven’s secrets. The locket belonged to Mrs. Harrow, the village baker, who never spoke of her daughter who vanished decades ago. The ribbon matched one worn by the fisherman’s wife, whose eyes always carried a quiet grief. The toy boat pointed to a boy who drowned, his story whispered in the village pub. Amara began to see the pattern: the lantern wasn’t just showing her pain—it was showing the town’s, weaving her guilt into a tapestry of shared loss.

She avoided the villagers, but they noticed her. Old Mr. Keane, who sold fish at the dock, watched her with knowing eyes. “That lighthouse keeps secrets,” he said one morning, his voice rough as the sea. “It kept her, too.” Amara didn’t ask who “her” was. She already knew—the woman in the white dress, the last keeper, whose name no one spoke. The visions grew sharper, more insistent. The woman’s face became clearer: sharp cheekbones, eyes like storm clouds, a locket glinting at her throat. In one vision, she stood in the tower, writing the letter Amara had found, tears staining the page. In another, she stepped off the cliff, and the lantern flickered out.

Amara’s own memories bled into the visions. Lila’s voice, accusing: “Why didn’t you stop?” The night of the accident, Amara had been distracted, arguing with Lila over something trivial—music, maybe, or plans for the weekend. The road curved, the headlights caught a deer, and then—nothing. Lila was gone, and Amara carried the weight of her absence like a stone. The lantern knew. It saw her truth and reflected it back, merciless.

One night, the final vision came. The woman in the white dress stood beside Amara in the tower, her hand cold as she pressed the locket into Amara’s palm. “You can’t hide forever,” she whispered, her voice like the tide. The lantern blazed, showing Amara standing at the cliff’s edge, the village below watching her, their secrets laid bare. Mrs. Harrow’s daughter, the fisherman’s wife, the drowned boy—all their stories intertwined with Amara’s guilt. The woman’s voice echoed: “Let it burn, or let it go.”

Amara stood at the lantern, her hands shaking. Destroying it would bury the visions, her pain, the town’s truths. But letting it burn meant exposing everything—her role in Lila’s death, the village’s hidden wounds. She thought of Lila’s laugh, the seashell in her pocket, the letter’s plea for forgiveness. The fog outside thickened, pressing against the lighthouse like a crowd waiting for her choice.

She lifted the lantern, its light warm against her skin. She could smash it, let the glass shatter like her past. Or she could set it back, let it burn, and face what came next. The woman’s face lingered in her mind, not accusing but waiting. Amara’s tears fell, mixing with the salt in the air. She placed the lantern on its pedestal, its glow steady, unyielding. The fog parted, just for a moment, and the village below seemed to breathe.