The last light keeper

There is a lighthouse at the edge of the world. It stands not on any map, nor does it appear in satellite photos. Its foundation is older than language, and its lantern shines with something more ancient than fire. You won’t find it by boat or plane. You find it by feeling lost enough. Broken enough. Empty in that very specific way that only truth can hollow you out. That’s when the fog lifts. That’s when the rocks part. And that’s when the last Lightkeeper lets you in. She has no name, or rather, she has had so many names that she no longer wears any of them. Names slide off her like mist. She lives alone, or perhaps with ghosts—not the kind that rattle chains, but the kind that live in long silences and unfinished thoughts. Her hair is the color of rainclouds. Her eyes, tide-dark and endless. She doesn’t ask why you’re here. She already knows. Inside, the lighthouse is not narrow and steep, as one would expect. It opens like a cathedral. Spiral stairs curve up and up, lined with shel...