The Last Lighthouse
A keeper tends a light that no ship needs anymore.
The morning fog rolled in at four, the way it always did in November. Miriam stood at the gallery rail with her coffee going cold and watched the gray swallow the sea. Somewhere below, the waves kept their appointments with the rocks.
She had been the keeper for eleven years. Before that, her father. Before that, his mother. The light had been automated since 1987, but the Bureau kept a human on station anyway — for maintenance, they said, though Miriam suspected it was because no one had gotten around to writing the memo that would end the position.
The Routine
Every day was the same, and she had learned to love the sameness the way a musician loves scales. Up at four. Coffee in the watch room. Check the bulb, the backup bulb, the backup to the backup. Oil the gears that hadn't needed oiling since the motor was installed. Log the weather in a leather-bound book that no one would ever read.
At noon she walked the cliff path to the village for groceries. Mrs. Chen at the shop would ask if she'd seen any ships. Miriam would say no. Mrs. Chen would shake her head and say it was a shame. This exchange had not varied in eleven years, and Miriam found it the most reliable thing in her life apart from the tide.
The Letter
The letter arrived on a Tuesday, which was unusual because mail came on Thursdays. It was from the Bureau, printed on paper so thick it felt like an apology. They were decommissioning the station. The light would be replaced by a GPS buoy. She had sixty days.
Miriam read it twice, folded it along its creases, and placed it in the logbook between November 14th and November 15th. Then she climbed the 127 steps to the lantern room and stood there for a long time, watching the beam sweep the empty water.
It occurred to her that she had never once seen a ship change course because of her light. Not in eleven years. The realization should have been devastating, but instead it felt like setting down something heavy that she hadn't known she was carrying.
The Last Night
On her final evening, Miriam did something she had never done. She turned off the automated system and lit the lamp by hand, the way her grandmother had described it — with kerosene and a match and the slow careful turning of the wick until the flame caught and held.
The light was different this way. Warmer. It didn't sweep mechanically but flickered and breathed, throwing shadows that moved like living things across the lantern room walls. She sat beside it all night, not sleeping, just listening to the flame and the wind and the water below.
In the morning she locked the door, left the key under the mat where her father had always left it, and walked down the cliff path one last time. She did not look back, because she had already memorized everything worth remembering.
What Remains
The lighthouse still stands. The GPS buoy handles navigation now, blinking its precise digital signal to ships that pass in the night. Sometimes hikers climb the cliff path and peer through the windows at the dusty machinery inside.
On very clear nights, Mrs. Chen claims she can still see a faint glow from the lantern room. Her daughter says it's just the moonlight catching the glass. Mrs. Chen doesn't argue. She just watches for a while, then closes the curtains and goes to bed.