The Sunrise of the Lighthouse Keeper

First Day

The waves were restless and hissed like ancient secrets, and the water was a somber slate-gray. The lighthouse, a lone sentinel rising above ragged rocks and storm-salted air, remained steadfast on the brink of the cliff as usual. Wexley Point lighthouse keeper Jonathan Hale observed the horizon with the silent awe of a man who had mastered the language of solitude.

He had been climbing the steep iron stairs every morning and night for thirty-seven years, making his way to the lantern that led ships away from the coast's sharp edges. Through hurricanes, blizzards, and fog so dense that it might drown out sound, he had maintained the light. Even when the lighthouse was automated, he was allowed to keep it as long as he took care of the grounds and managed infrequent crises.

The majority referred to it as dignified retirement. It was a statement with a view, according to Jonathan.

The tiny stone kitchen, with its chipped tiles and windows that let in wind like gossip, was where he brewed tea. A tiny pencil circle indicated the date, April 3rd, on the wall calendar. It was her birthday. Before he turned away, his fingers hovered over the number, tracing it absently.

That morning's sunrise arrived slowly and grudgingly, as if the sun itself was unsure of the value of the fresh day. Still, Jonathan watched it, as he always did. He still hoped it would bring her, but not because of the brightness it brought.

Day Two

A knock came from the thick oak door at 6:14 a.m. Not the wind. Not gulls. An actual knock.

Jonathan scowled. There was a reason why anyone came out to Wexley Point. The sole road in the fifteen-mile-inland village was gravel and covered in weeds that might cut your tires if you were not looking.

He pulled the door open.

Her moist curls clung to her cheeks as she stood there in a yellow raincoat that was too bright for the weather. She carried a typewriter case and a knapsack in her hands as if these were the only things that mattered.

"Hello," she said.

"You are lost," he said, not in an unpleasant way.

"No, I am not. I write. I am meant to be here.

Half expecting a camera crew to jump from the rocks, Jonathan cocked his head. It was supposed to be empty.

"By whose reckoning is it supposed to be here?"

"Mine. I am composing a narrative. I also require the truth. Her smile was a glimpse of something too vibrant for such a forsaken environment. "May I enter?"

He ought to have refused. However, he moved aside.

Day Three

Clara was her name. By the window with the best view of the ocean, which faced west, she placed a typewriter. As she wrote, Jonathan could hear the steady tapping of keys, broken now and then by her moan of frustration or her humming.

She claimed to be writing a book about a lighthouse keeper who continued to keep the light burning after everyone else had ceased observing. She smiled and said, "Like you," to which Jonathan merely blinked in response.

He questioned, "What makes you think the world stopped watching?"

She gave a shrug. "Because lighthouses are only seen by lost people."

He was the only person standing atop the tower that night, while the beam continued its never-ending rotation. Standing barefoot in the grass with her arms stretched to the sky, perhaps seeking answers from the wind, he observed her from above.

Day Five

Jonathan pretended not to mind the awful scrambled eggs and burnt bread that Clara prepared for breakfast.

He was drinking his tea when she added, "You know," "you are not quite as terrible as I imagined."

She bent over. "That haunting expression of yours. As if you are waiting for a ghost that no longer appears."

He stopped, spoon in the air. "Are all authors thus uncivil?"

"Only those who are being truthful."

Into his tea Jonathan gazed. "No ghost exists."

Sadly, Clara smiled. "I take it that no one is left to torment you?"

He did not respond.

Day Seven

Before dawn, a storm moved in, dragging clouds like a blanket across the sky. With every gust, the lighthouse shook, but it held firm. Clara stayed near the window, her hair wild and loose around her shoulders as she typed by candlelight.

The uneasy silence between them had become warm when Jonathan gave her tea.

"Did she join you in witnessing the sunrise?" Clara asked abruptly.

He stopped.

Clara carefully closed the typewriter lid. "The lady who had her birthday circled."

Jonathan peered out the window, past the water and past the ominous storm.

When he eventually said, "Her name was Evelyn," "One summer, seventeen years ago, she came here. A painter. claimed to be seeking tranquility.

"Did she discover it?"

His expression was wistful. "In fragments. Then, since everyone likes her, she went. the kind that require movement in order to breathe.

"But you stayed."

"For her, I vowed to keep the light on."

Day Nine

Clara started using Jonathan's old easel from the cellar to paint in the mornings. She employed strong brushstrokes, vibrant hues, and sunsets that spilled into the ocean.

Fascinated, Jonathan observed her work. "You paint as well?"

However, I like words better. It is too soon for paint to dry for you to change your mind.

He nodded, knowing better than he admitted.

Her question was, "You ever thought of leaving?"

He gave a headshake. "This location is familiar with me. I would disappear out there."

"You have already," she remarked softly.

And he saw that she was correct.

Eleventh Day

At dusk, they watched the sun disappear beneath the ocean while sitting on the rocks.

"Do you believe that love can wait?" Clara inquired.

Jonathan stared at her, uncertain of how to respond.

"I mean... Does it still qualify as love if two people are separated for years and do not communicate or write to each other, but their feelings remain the same?

His response was, "It depends,"

"On what?"

"To see if the light is still on."

Slowly, with her eyes focused on the horizon, she nodded. Mine, I believe, flickered out. Or perhaps I simply ran out of oil.

Day Thirteen

After more than ten years, Jonathan finally unlocked a drawer. There were faded doodles, old postcards, and one picture of Evelyn standing by the tower with sunlight tangled in her hair and the sea behind her.

Clara got it from him.

He remarked, "She never wrote back."

Clara looked at the picture. "Perhaps she was at a loss for words."

Jonathan spoke quietly. "Then she ought to have spoken up."

With reverence, Clara put the picture back. "Have you ever considered that the daybreak you are anticipating could not resemble her?"

He looked her in the eye. "Perhaps I had stopped waiting for her."

Day Fifteen

Clara had completed her story. By lantern light, she read it out loud, her voice faltering at the conclusion.

For the first morning, she read, "the keeper is standing at the edge of the cliff, not waiting for a ship, a woman, or even redemption—but he no longer monitors the horizon."

Jonathan let out a breath. The ensuing quiet felt complete rather than hollow.

He advised you to publish it.

"Yes, I will. And I will dedicate it to the keeper of the lighthouse.

He gave her a serious gaze at that moment. The kind of glance that does not require consent.

She grinned. "And perhaps you will go with someone to see the next sunrise."

Day 17

Clara gathered her belongings. Jonathan walked her halfway down the dirt road when her car sputtered.

"I will be back," she declared.

"You would better. You only had half of your paintbrushes left.

She chuckled. "Perhaps I intentionally did it."

He gave the typewriter case to her. "Continue writing."

"You never stop observing."

After hesitating, she gave him a cheek kiss. You are free to go on. Even ghosts grow weary.

He waited on the bluff and watched her drive off, till the yellow raincoat vanished into the mists.

Then he changed the page of the calendar and went back inside.

Day Nineteen

The orange and scarlet flash of the sunrise was so bright and blinding that it ignited the sea.

As usual, Jonathan ascended the lighthouse, but this time he carried a second chair.

He started writing while seated, holding a notebook in his lap.

Day 21

From the city came a postcard featuring a woman in a yellow coat and a sketch of a lighthouse.

It just stated:

"The light remained constant. I appreciate you retaining it.

Day 25

With a cup of tea and no expectations, Jonathan watched the morning.

He did not close the door, however.

Just in case.