The Last Lightkeeper

Eli Moran had lived alone on Marrow Isle for twenty-seven years, tending the ancient lighthouse. Once, ships filled the bay like scattered marbles, and Eli’s light meant life or death to sailors fighting the tides. But times changed. GPS and satellites replaced him, leaving Eli a relic—forgotten by everyone but the island itself.

Each night, he still climbed the narrow spiral of crumbling steps to ignite the old Fresnel lens, though no ship ever came.

One evening, just as dusk bled into a bruised sky, Eli saw something through the fog: a sail, torn and battered, listing toward the rocks. Without thinking, he threw his weight into the rusty mechanisms, wrenching the great light to life.

The beam cut through the mist like a blade. The ship, impossibly, shifted course. Eli watched, heart pounding, as the vessel disappeared into the darkness—saved.

The next morning, there was no wreckage. No footprints on the beach. Only a small wooden figure left at his doorstep: a tiny carving of a lighthouse, its windows filled with real light.

For the first time in years, Eli smiled. Maybe his duty wasn’t obsolete. Maybe some lights are meant to guide souls, not ships.

And some callings never truly end.