The Return
GENERE 1
On the edge of the shore, where high rocks are battered by waves and water trickles into unmapped caves, there sits a lighthouse. It has seen better days, red and white paint chipped by time to reveal sturdy grey concrete beneath. The wooden door at its base is warped from moisture and age. But, if one were to look closely they would find the telltale signs of a well-cared for home.
The windowpanes are clean and spotless, letting sunlight filter in like shallow shoals. The hinges of the door are oiled and primed so that nary a squeak escapes when they open or close. The inside of the storm pane is free of condensation, wiped down daily by hands looking for busy work to while the lonesome hours away.
Inside the walls, all along the spiralling structure, from floor to ceiling are the little touches that breathe life and personality into it. Sheafs of paper tacked up and looped through with yarn contain detailed observations of weather patterns and cycles, hand drawn sketches of the coastline are done in charcoal black, the particles occasionally coating the air as a figure bustles up and down the stairs.
Shelves have been hung or nailed in, each and every one is laden with books. Where the infrastructure does not conform to straightened wooden boards, the books stack upon themselves on the ground, tucked flush against the base of mortar and stone. Some covers are faded, but moleskin and leather has otherwise been carefully preserved, standing testament to the valiant fight against the sea's dislike and outright hatred of the written word.
Winds and moisture that tried to swallow worlds whole have been assuaged for at least a little longer by the Lighthouse Keeper.
At the moment he has made his way up to the balcony. It is still midday and a relatively clear one at that, although the approaching nimbostratus promise this will not last. Looking out to the sea, spyglass in hand, he searches the waves. A calendar page is clutched in his left hand, the paper crinkled in the tightening fist. Days have been crossed out up until a circled date, the scrawled spidery script in the box simply reads: The Return.
The horizon remains stubbornly empty.
It is possible—he tells himself—that they are simply waylaid. It should not be a cause for concern. Ships are always at the mercy of the wind and the tides, his profession has taught him that well enough.
Yet, he cannot help the anxiety that begins to bubble and foam in the pit of his stomach. Gurgling up to his throat it releases itself in a huff of frustration. It could be the tides, and it could just have easily been the coast guard or the crown navy to blame. If they were late, surely he would send a message ahead?
The telescope drops from his eye and lets the railing hold his weight as he continues to look longingly to the blue beyond. This was one of the more remote outposts he’d ever worked. The nearest town was a two day hike out, a day by horseback if he’d had the capability to keep the animals. Usually settlement law enforcement or mail carriers rode out to greet him, and those visits were few and far between, it had made no sense to bother when whatever news was meant for him made its way here eventually.
The times a year in which he saw people could be counted on two hands. Could be counted on one for the people who stayed for longer than a night.
He took a deep breath, letting the sea spray fill his lungs, the cry of gulls pool into his ears and empty his head of thought. Routine was what got him through it. Routine and the air up here. Crisp and wakeful in its briskness.
The smell of a storm comes with his next inhale, and it carries with it the reminder of how this all began.
Big thanks to@ribo.zone for the photopile code snippet
