slahuddin season 2 ep 57

On the rocky coast of Merrow Bay stood an old lighthouse, its whitewashed walls battered by decades of salt wind and storm. To the townsfolk, it was merely a relic—no longer in use since the new automatic beacon was installed inland. But to some, it held stories too deep to ignore.

The townspeople often spoke of the keeper, Elias Grange, a man who had lived alone in the lighthouse for over forty years. His silhouette could be seen pacing the lantern room every evening, even though the light no longer turned. Children told ghost stories about him. Some said he had died in the tower and his soul never left. Others believed he guarded a treasure buried beneath the rocks.

But none dared go near—until fifteen-year-old Clara Bell arrived in town.

Clara had been sent to Merrow Bay for the summer to live with her grandmother, a stern woman with hands like driftwood and a gaze as cold as sea glass. Clara’s mother had called it “a break,” though Clara knew better. Since the accident, everyone wanted distance from her grief.

Each morning, Clara walked along the jagged shoreline, hoping the sea would wash away the heaviness in her chest. On one of these walks, she spotted a flicker of movement in the lighthouse window. Curious, she climbed the overgrown path leading to the door.

It was slightly open.

Her heart raced, but curiosity pulled her forward. Inside, the lighthouse smelled of oil, salt, and time. Wooden stairs spiraled upward, creaking under her feet. When she reached the lantern room, she froze.

There sat Elias Grange himself—old, hunched, with a beard like tangled rope and eyes that held the color of distant storms.

“You’re a brave one,” he said without turning. “Most just watch from below.”

Clara hesitated. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”

“Then you wouldn’t have come this far,” he replied, smiling faintly.

There was silence, filled only by the rhythmic crashing of waves.

“What are you doing up here?” Clara asked.

“Keeping watch,” he said.

“But… the lighthouse isn’t used anymore.”

Elias looked at her then, and something softened in his face. “Some lights don’t shine for ships.”

They sat in silence for a long time. Clara looked out through the salty glass, watching gulls dance on the wind. She didn’t ask questions. She didn’t need to. And somehow, that made Elias talk.

Over the following days, Clara returned again and again. Elias told her stories—of storms that tore through the coast, of ships that vanished into fog, of the lighthouse’s original keeper, who had once gone mad from loneliness. But Elias never mentioned his own story. Not until the last week of summer.

It was a rainy day. The wind howled, and waves slammed against the cliffs like drums of war. Clara climbed the slick path, heart pounding with worry. She found Elias in the lantern room, staring out into the mist.

“She didn’t make it,” he said softly, not turning. “That night, I should have seen the signal. But I had fallen asleep.”

Clara sat beside him, unsure what to say.

“My daughter,” he continued. “She was on the ferry. I had told her to wait until morning. But she was stubborn like her mother. The storm came in fast. They never found the wreckage.”

He turned to Clara with wet eyes. “I left the lighthouse after that. Couldn’t bear the sight. For twenty years, I lived inland, away from the sea. But I kept dreaming of her, calling out. So I came back. Not to light the way for ships—but to watch. Just in case… just in case the sea returned her to me.”

Clara’s own grief bubbled to the surface. “My brother,” she whispered. “He died in a car crash. I was supposed to pick him up. I forgot… and he hitched a ride with someone else. A drunk driver.”

Elias placed a weathered hand on hers. “Guilt is a storm of its own, child.”

They sat together, the storm raging outside and within. But something shifted in Clara that day—a crack in the wall she had built around her sorrow.

Summer came to an end. Clara hugged Elias goodbye, promising to write. She did. Every week. Elias wrote back in blocky handwriting, sharing thoughts, stories, sketches of the sea.

Two years later, when Clara returned for another summer, the path to the lighthouse was overgrown once again. The door creaked open to an empty room. On the windowsill sat a small wooden box.

Inside was a letter.

Dear Clara,

If you're reading this, then my watch is over. I have finally gone to find my daughter. But I wanted to leave you something—a reminder that sometimes, the people we lose leave behind more than pain. They leave purpose.

You have the heart of a lighthouse keeper. Don’t let it dim. Keep watching. Keep shining. For yourself, and for those still lost at sea.

With love, Elias.

Clara stood in the lantern room, wind in her hair, the sea below roaring with life. She closed her eyes, felt the warmth of memory, and smiled through her tears.

The light no longer turned, but for the first time, Clara understood:

Some lights never needed to.