I'm on the dock at 11pm and the old lighthouse is flashing. Not blinking like it's broken—steady, intentional, twice every minute. Perfect rhythm. The town said that door's been locked since the '80s. No one climbed those stairs. But that light keeps going. And I'm standing here wondering if I'm about to learn something I shouldn't.
My mom texts: 'why are you at the lighthouse?' I didn't tell her where I was. She sends: 'my dad used to say the keeper never left. He was still up there, doing the light. Even after they locked it down.'
I drive to Maple Street where the keeper's house sits. It's dark. Empty for decades. But when I get out of my car—I see light coming through the basement window. A faint, steady glow. The lighthouse is still on in the distance too.