Eleanor gasped, clutching the railing. For the first time in decades, the lighthouse was dark. Marcus rushed to check the fuse box downstairs, but everything seemed fine. No tripped breakers, no blown bulbs.
“It’s not mechanical,” Eleanor murmured, her voice barely audible above the wind. “Something’s coming.”
Outside, waves began to crash harder against the rocks below. A thick fog rolled in from the lake, swallowing the shoreline. And then — faintly through the mist — a sound: a low horn echoing across the water.
A ship?
But there hadn’t been commercial traffic this close to the bay in years.
Eleanor moved quickly, pulling a backup kerosene lantern from a shelf and lighting it with trembling hands. She opened the heavy door to the tower and stepped outside, holding the lantern high.
From the cliff’s edge, Marcus saw it too — a shadow cutting through the fog, a shape moving toward the shore.
It wasn’t a modern vessel.
It looked like an old freighter, rusted and battered, its bow rising and falling with the rhythm of the storm. But what caught Marcus’s breath was the figure standing at the helm.
A man in a rain-soaked coat.
And a familiar face.
Thomas.
Or someone who looked exactly like the photo Eleanor kept in her journal.
Eleanor didn’t speak. She simply raised the lantern and held it steady.
As if in response, the ship’s horn sounded again — softer this time. Grateful.
And then, just as suddenly as it appeared, the ship vanished into the fog.
The wind died. The sea calmed. And the lighthouse light — which had gone out — flickered back on.
As if nothing had happened.