Every evening, Maya climbed the one hundred and seven steps to the top of the lighthouse, just as her grandmother had done for forty years before her. The great lamp had to be lit before the sun slipped beneath the horizon, or the fishing boats might lose their way home.
Tonight the wind howled against the glass, and rain hammered the narrow windows. Maya’s fingers trembled as she struck the match, though the tower was warm. The storm reminded her of the night the Seabird had been lost on the rocks below, and she could not shake the memory away.
She pressed her face to the window and squinted into the darkness. Far out, a single light bobbed up and down, fighting the waves. A boat was still at sea. Maya did not hesitate. She hauled the heavy brass handle and swung the beam towards the struggling vessel, holding it steady until, at last, the light began to crawl slowly back towards the harbour. Only then did she let out a long, shaking breath.