The Keeper Of The Lantern

In the quiet hours when the stars blinked through a veil of mist, the lantern keeper trudged up the spiral path to the cliff’s edge. His boots crunched against frost-kissed stones, each step a rhythm older than memory.

The lantern in his hand swayed, casting amber pools that danced with shadows no one else could see. He was not young, nor old, but carved from time itself—his face a map of creases, each line a story the sea had whispered to him.

The village below slept, unaware of the light he tended, a beacon that held no promise of ships returning, only the certainty of their departure. Tonight, the wind carried a strange weight, heavy with salt and something sharper—regret, perhaps.

He paused, setting the lantern on the jagged outcrop, and stared into the dark where the ocean swallowed the sky. Once, he’d dreamed of sailing beyond the horizon, chasing the sun’s fire. But dreams, like tides, recede.

The lantern flickered, its flame trembling as if it knew his thoughts. He adjusted the wick, steadying the glow. Not for him, this light, nor for the ghosts that lingered in the foam. It was for those who’d never know they needed it—strangers on distant waves, searching for a spark to call home.