The Last Time The Lighthouse Went Dark

I stood on the rocks below the bluff and watched the lighthouse beam blink out and knew from the sudden absence of light that you had already decided not to come back down.

The ocean breathed in long slow pulls against the shore and the air smelled of salt and cold stone. Wind pressed my jacket flat against me and carried the sound of the buoy bell from farther out than it should have. Above me the lighthouse rose white and narrow against the darkening sky. Its light had always swept the water in patient circles. Now it held still in shadow. I waited anyway with my hands tucked under my arms like I could keep the feeling in place if I stood long enough.

Harbor Point was a town that lived by watching. People watched the tides. They watched the weather. They watched one another arrive and leave. The lighthouse was its constant. Even children learned to read the light before they learned to read words. I had grown up with it cutting the dark into manageable pieces. Then you came and taught me how absence could do the same thing in reverse.

You arrived in early autumn when the tourists thinned and the shops closed early. You said you had taken the caretaker job because you wanted something simple. You said it like you were testing the word. I met you the first evening when you came into the bait shop asking for rope and batteries. Your hair was still wet from the ferry spray and your smile looked like it had not been used in a while.

You moved into the small house at the base of the bluff where the grass grew stubborn and short. From my kitchen window I could see the light sweep the water each night and imagine you up there walking its narrow stairs. Sometimes I watched the beam pass and wondered what you saw from the other side. Sometimes I pretended not to.

We found each other easily in a town that offered few options. At the dock in the mornings when the boats returned. At the diner where the coffee was always strong and the windows rattled in the wind. Our conversations were unhurried. You asked about the tides. I asked about the places you had been. You answered in careful sections like you were choosing what to carry forward.

By October the days shortened and the air sharpened. We began walking together along the beach in the evenings when the sand cooled and the gulls quieted. You liked to collect smooth stones and turn them in your hands like worry beads. You said the sound of the waves made it easier to think. I did not tell you that walking beside you did the same for me.

The first time you came to my house the lighthouse beam passed through the window and briefly painted the walls. You noticed it immediately and smiled like you had discovered a private joke. We cooked something simple and ate at the small table near the window. Our knees brushed once and neither of us moved away. The contact felt deliberate and tentative at the same time.

The town noticed. It always did. Someone asked if you were staying through winter. You said you were not sure. Someone else asked if I thought you would last up there alone when the storms came. I said you seemed steady. You laughed when I told you that and said steady was not a word people usually chose for you.

As the season turned the wind grew louder and the nights colder. We sat on the rocks below the bluff and watched the light move across the water. Sometimes we talked. Sometimes we just listened. You rested your shoulder against mine once when the cold crept in and I let myself lean into it. The moment felt both grounding and dangerous.

One evening you told me you had not planned to stay as long as you had. You said it quietly like you were confessing something to the waves. You said there were things waiting elsewhere that you had been avoiding. I nodded and did not ask what they were. The lighthouse beam passed over us and then moved on.

After that the restraint between us grew heavier. We touched more often but lightly. A hand on an arm. Fingers brushing as we walked. Each contact carried weight. You began spending more time up in the lighthouse during the day. I began to notice when the beam lingered a fraction longer at night.

The storm came in late November sudden and fierce. The wind howled and the rain came sideways. I worried about you up there alone and walked to the bluff despite the weather. I could see the light cutting through the dark steady and bright. I stood below and felt foolish and relieved all at once.

The next morning you came down early and knocked on my door. Your face was tired but calm. You said you loved storms because they made everything honest. We drank coffee in silence and watched the sea churn. When you left you touched my hand briefly like you were checking something. I did not stop you.

The letter arrived a week later. You held it unopened when you came over that evening. You said you knew what it said without reading it. You said the job you had left before Harbor Point was asking you back. You said it felt like a door reopening. I listened and felt something fold inward quietly.

I said you should do what felt right. The words were true and incomplete. You looked at me like you wanted to ask for something else. Neither of us said it. The lighthouse beam passed through the window and then disappeared.

The days that followed felt borrowed. We walked less and sat more. Sometimes on the rocks. Sometimes at my kitchen table. The air grew colder. The sea settled into a steady gray. One night you fell asleep on my couch with your head tipped toward my shoulder. I did not move for a long time. When you woke you apologized and sat up straight.

The last evening before you were meant to leave we walked to the lighthouse together. The wind was low and the sky clear. From the top the town lights looked small and temporary. You said you were afraid of regretting both choices. I said some regrets stay either way. We stood close enough to feel each others warmth without touching.

You asked if I would ever leave Harbor Point. I said I did not know how. You said you did not know how to stay. We smiled at the symmetry and then grew quiet. When the light swept past us I closed my eyes and wished for nothing to change.

Later I stood on the rocks and watched the beam go dark. The light did not return. I waited until the cold reached my bones. In the morning the house at the base of the bluff was quiet. The door was locked. The ferry horn sounded once out on the water.

Winter came and went. Someone else took over the lighthouse. The beam returned but it felt different. Sometimes I walked the beach alone and collected stones without knowing why. Sometimes I looked up at the light and thought about what it meant to keep watch.

One evening in early spring I stood on the rocks again. The lighthouse beam swept the water steady and bright. I did not wait for it to go dark. I turned back toward town and walked home. The light kept moving behind me. I carried it with me in a different way and let the dark be what it was.