The Light at Miller's Dock

The trail down to Miller’s Dock had narrowed over the years, overtaken in places by roots and brush. What once was a foot-worn path now felt more like a memory than a route. Calvin moved carefully, stepping over slick stones and ducking under branches. The lake wind stirred the treetops, but everything below held its breath, as if waiting.

He carried a lantern. Not because he needed it yet—there was still enough light to see—but because you didn’t come to this place empty-handed. Not tonight. Not with this much history pressing against your ribs.

It was the same lantern he’d used for decades. Brass, glass, heavy. Stubborn as he was. He’d cleaned it that morning, scrubbed the soot from the rim, filled it with fresh oil. The smell clung to him. Familiar. Grounding. Almost like someone had asked him to come prepared.

He hadn’t walked this path since 1975.

The dock appeared all at once, rising from the fog like something half-forgotten. Long and bowed, still clinging to shape despite the years. Moss and lichen curled along its edges. The water, dark and slow-moving, pushed gently against the posts. No boats. No birds. Just the hush of everything waiting.

He stepped onto the wood. It flexed but didn’t give. He’d expected the rot to take it by now. But like most things in this town, it endured quietly, without ceremony.

At the end of the dock, a second lantern waited.

It wasn’t his.

New. Untarnished. Its glass clear, wick unburned. When he reached for it, the metal felt warm.

He eased himself down beside it. His knees popped. The cold from the dock seeped in through his coat. But he didn’t mind. The silence that surrounded him was thick, familiar.

“You out there, Jamie?” he asked, his voice low, uneven. “Still mad at me?”

The lake didn’t answer. It never had.

He struck a match and lit his own lantern. The flame flared, then settled. He watched it for a long while. It didn’t dance. It held steady.

“They asked where you’d gone. I told them Seattle. Said you wanted to see the world, get out while you could.”

He sighed, long and tired.

“Truth is, I had no clue. We fought. You left. And I didn’t stop you.”

He pulled his coat tighter, eyes tracing the water’s edge.

“I saw you turn back. Just for a second. Maybe you wanted me to say something. Maybe not. But I said nothing.”

A ripple touched the dock. Gentle. Almost deliberate.

“I thought maybe you’d come home on your own. Or write. I kept checking the mailbox for a year. Then I just... stopped.”

The second lantern pulsed softly. Not a flicker. A slow exhale.

Calvin looked across the water. Fog drifted low, heavy in the middle. He leaned forward, elbows on knees, breath shallow in the cold air.

And there—brief as a breath—something moved.

A figure. Slim. Barefoot. Standing in a boat that didn’t quite float.

Could’ve been Jamie. Could’ve been nothing. Could’ve been hope.

Then it was gone.

He didn’t rise. He didn’t call out. He stayed. Let the silence ease back in and, for the first time in decades, felt it rest without pressure.

The night passed that way—unspoken but full.

When morning began its slow undoing of the dark, Calvin stood. His back ached. His hands were cold. But something inside him had loosened.

He left the new lantern where it was.

The light stayed behind him on the dock, steady as a promise he’d finally kept.