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9
S_Paul
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The old lighthouse stood at the edge of the cliff, its beam cutting through the fog every fifteen seconds. For nearly a hundred years, it had guided ships safely past the rocky shore, though the keeper who once maintained it had long since retired. Now the light ran on its own, automated and silent, watched only by seabirds and the occasional hiker who braved the winding path up from the village below.
One morning in late October, a letter arrived at the harbor post office addressed to the lighthouse itself. No one knew who had sent it or why, but the postmaster, being a practical man, decided to walk it up the hill at the end of his shift. The wind was sharp that afternoon, and the gulls cried overhead as he climbed the cracked stone steps, wondering what words could possibly be meant for a building made of brick and glass.
When he reached the door, he paused. The letter felt heavier in his pocket than it should have. Finally, he tucked it beneath the iron knocker and turned back toward the sea, leaving the mystery to the salt air and the turning of the light.