Last Letter from the Lighthouse

The last time I saw Thomas, he stood at the edge of the cliffs beneath the lighthouse, his coat whipping in the sea wind. He smiled at me with that quiet sadness he always carried, as though part of him belonged more to the ocean than to the land.

He said goodbye like it was just another shift—another night in the lighthouse. I never imagined it would be the last.

He disappeared during the storm.

They said it was the sea. The waves had risen thirty feet that night, lashing against the rock with the fury of something ancient and hungry. No one blamed the lighthouse; it was Thomas who had volunteered to stay. “Better me than anyone else,” he’d said, half-smiling.

For days they searched. The rocks. The coastline. The tide pools. Nothing. No body. No footprints. Just the endless roar of the sea.

That was six weeks ago.

And then, the letters started coming.

The first one arrived in a plain envelope, tucked between the usual bills and junk mail. No stamp. No return address. Just my name: Claire. Inside, a single page written in Thomas’s unmistakable handwriting.

**"Claire,

The storm hasn’t passed. Not really. The waves speak, but I can’t quite understand them yet. I miss the smell of your coffee. I miss your red wool scarf. Keep the window open on Tuesday nights. I’ll try to be near.

T."**

I thought it was a cruel prank. A sick joke. But then Tuesday came, and the window rattled at exactly 11:12 p.m.—a pattern of knocks, like a code. Just once.

Then it was gone.

I told no one. I couldn’t. Who would believe me?

The second letter came five days later.

**"Claire,

I walked the stairs again tonight. The lighthouse light still spins, but slower than before. It’s not the same without your voice on the radio. Remember how you used to read poetry when things were quiet? Read something out loud tonight. I’ll try to listen.

T."**

This time, I did. I read Rilke. Slowly. Clearly. My voice trembled.

And that night, the foghorn didn’t sound—but I heard music instead. Faint. Hollow. A tune Thomas used to hum when he was nervous.

Letter after letter followed. Always brief. Always filled with small memories—things only he would know. Things we never told anyone else. I kept them in a box beneath my bed, afraid that reading them too many times would make them vanish.

But the mystery deepened.

The postman swore he never delivered them. No one saw anyone approach the house. And when I checked the lighthouse, everything was exactly as it had been—undisturbed. His boots still by the door. His coat hanging on the peg. But the journal he always kept? Gone.

The seventh letter changed everything.

**"Claire,

There’s something beneath the lighthouse. I think it’s been waiting. I hear it whispering when the tide is high. Not words. Not exactly. But something close. I don’t think I’m the first.

I’m trying to find the way back. But if I can’t…

Tell my sister I’m sorry. Tell her I should’ve answered that last message.

And Claire—thank you for never forgetting.

T."**

I went to the lighthouse the next morning, heart pounding. I hadn’t been back alone since the night he vanished. I climbed the spiral staircase, the wood groaning under each step. At the top, the glass dome cast fractured light across the room.

And on the desk, dusty and untouched for weeks, was Thomas’s journal.

But it wasn’t the one I remembered. This one was older. Leather-bound. And inside it were dozens of entries—not in Thomas’s handwriting, but written by different hands, across decades.

"Still here."

"She waits in the waves."

"He thinks he can leave."

"The sea remembers."

I closed the journal, chilled to my bones. Whatever had taken Thomas wasn’t done.

That night, I left the window open again. At 11:12, the knock came.

Three short raps. Then silence.

No new letter followed the next day. Or the next.

It’s been a month now.

I still check the mailbox every morning. I still sleep with the red scarf he loved. I still whisper poems into the dark.

And sometimes, when the wind is just right and the tide pulls back, I hear the faintest voice beneath the roar—

"Claire..."

Maybe the sea took him.

Maybe it tried to send him back.

Or maybe the lighthouse never really let him go.