The salt air bit into Clara’s cheeks as she stepped off the creaking ferry, her boots crunching over gravel. The dock smelled of brine and diesel, the same as it had fifteen years ago when she’d fled. She hadn’t returned since. Not until today.
The lighthouse stood at the edge of the cliffs, its white paint peeling like old skin. A storm had battered it overnight, and the beam flickered uncertainly as she approached. She’d heard the keeper had died last winter—left the tower to rot. But the light still spun, a stubborn heartbeat against the dark.
“You shouldn’t be here,” said a voice behind her.
Clara turned. The man was taller than she remembered, his hair darker, his jaw more defined. He wore a faded flannel shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, and the scent of tobacco clung to him. His eyes—those gray eyes—held the same quiet storm she’d once loved.
“I had to come,” she said. “The letter said you needed help.”
He exhaled, a slow puff of smoke. “I don’t need anything from you.”
“You’re lying.” She stepped closer, the wind tugging at her coat. “You always did.”
His gaze dropped to her hands, which trembled slightly. “You still do that when you’re nervous.”
“You still smoke when you’re angry,” she shot back.
A beat passed. The sea roared below, waves crashing against the rocks like a thousand fists. He turned away, staring at the tower. “The lens is cracked. If it doesn’t hold, the whole structure could collapse.”
“Then we fix it.” She didn’t wait for his answer. The door creaked open under her touch, revealing a spiral staircase spiraling into darkness.
The tower reeked of oil and rust. Clara’s fingers brushed the metal railing, slick with condensation. She could almost hear the old keeper’s voice, gruff and steady, guiding her through the labyrinth of gears and bulbs. But this wasn’t a memory. This was real.
“You don’t know what you’re doing,” he said, following her up the stairs.
“Neither do you.” She paused at the top, staring at the massive lens. It was fractured, a jagged scar running through its center. “How long has it been like this?”
“Since the storm in March. I’ve been patching it, but…” He trailed off, rubbing his temple. “It’s not the same. The light’s weaker.”
Clara reached out, her palm brushing the glass. The tower shuddered, a low groan echoing through the metal. She pulled her hand back. “We need to replace it.”
“That’ll cost ten thousand dollars.”
“Then we find the money.” She turned to face him. “You always said this place was your life.”
He looked away. “Things change.”
“No, they don’t.” Her voice wavered. “You stayed. I left. But this—this is still here.”
A silence stretched between them, thick as the fog rolling in from the sea. Then he nodded, rubbing his hands together. “We’ll start with the gears. If we can get the mechanism working, maybe we can buy time.”
They worked in tandem, their movements precise, their conversation sparse. Clara adjusted the lenses while he tightened bolts, their shoulders brushing as they leaned over the controls. The tower hummed around them, a living thing breathing through metal and glass.
“You never wrote,” she said suddenly.
He didn’t look up. “I didn’t have anything to say.”
“You always had something to say. About the tides, the storms… about us.”
“We weren’t us anymore.”
“We were.” Her voice cracked. “I thought you knew that.”
He paused, his hand hovering over a lever. The tower dipped slightly, the light flickering. “I thought you’d forgotten me.”
Clara stared at him, her chest tight. “I never could.”
The silence that followed was different now—full of weight, of unspoken things. The light steadied, casting long shadows across the walls. Clara stepped closer, her fingers brushing his arm. “We can fix this,” she whispered. “Together.”
He met her gaze, and for the first time in years, she saw the man she’d loved still there, buried beneath the years and the silence. “Okay,” he said softly. “Let’s do it.”
They worked until dawn, their hands raw, their voices hoarse. The lens was replaced, the gears oiled, the light restored to its full brilliance. As the first rays of sun broke over the horizon, Clara stood at the edge of the tower, watching the sea stretch endlessly before her.
“It’s beautiful,” she murmured.
“Yeah,” he said, standing beside her. “It is.”
She turned to him, her heart pounding. “I didn’t come back for the lighthouse.”
His eyes searched hers. “Then why?”
“Because I thought… maybe we could start again.” Her voice was barely a whisper. “Like we never left.”
He reached for her, his hand steady, his touch gentle. “We didn’t leave,” he said. “We just got lost.”
The wind blew through the tower, carrying the scent of salt and possibility. Clara leaned into him, the weight of the past lifting, the future stretching wide and open before them.
