Drip. The wood was dark, stained by beads of salty water. Drip. It pooled and began to cover the table in a sheet of glass. Drip. Canvases, marked with thick streaks of fog and storm, were strewn on top of each other on the damp floor, like dirty clothes in a hamper. Drip. Above those piles hung delicate china, guarded by colorful paintings of native flowers and children playing in the woods. Drip. Leaves in vibrant shades of green and rosy cheeks stood like perfectly preserved corpses, though each canvas was faded and deteriorated by decades of dust and heavy air. Drip.

Leroy stood barefoot, eyes locked towards the horizon in a solemn trance. His pale toes curled and uncurled, the tip of his nose flushed pink. Steam rose from his mug and clouded the window; his eyes switched to the sky. Billowing thickets of pewter drew nearer; they twisted and turned and echoed out into the gray morning. Maybe this one would rival last night’s- he hoped not. Perhaps the pounding would skip his door, and the wind's shrill cries would beg somewhere else, perhaps a ray of sun. A soundless sign from the gods to end these endless days. 

While the wind swept through the island, he pulled on his coat. Bundling its thick fabrics to shield frail skin from the treachery that awaited. As he stepped out into the night, a rush of bitter air bombarded him; he went to close the door, the wind caught notion and fought against him. Each time Leroy was close to shutting it, violent gusts drove into the thick wood and thrust the door open again. He wrestled for quite some time before finally slamming it shut. By this time, his skin was as pale as the moon and his lungs were desperate for warm air. He went quickly across a beaten path, eager to reach his destination. 

Once he entered the lighthouse a winding staircase greeted him, engulfing his view. He knew from experience, if you stood at the bottom and peered up, his eyes would surely spin- perhaps a design flaw, but the spiraling steps seemed to stretch on forever. 

After reaching the top, and pausing to catch his breath, Leroy retrieved his tools from a small closet and began his seemingly endless tasks. He cleaned the apparatus, polished the optic and lantern glass, and studied the coastline with his little telescope. Searching the rocky shores. He tightened bolts and surveyed the tides- noting the thunder clouds that swept closer.

Once each surface and piece of equipment had been wiped spotless or tightened, Leroy ventured back out into the cold winds to return to his chilly abode for a lunch of cold leftovers. The house was too still, too quiet, the sound of his own chewing became so deafening he couldn’t finish his meal.

The sky had begun to blacken, both from the storm and the beginning of night. This time, he doubled his wool and tightened his coat before heading back out. 

 Leroy inspected the Fresnel lens and its prisms. Afterward, he refilled the fuel supply and trimmed and lit the wick. He unlocked the weights, which dropped down the tower shaft, and hand-cranked them to the top, this then activated driving gears. Slowly, the lens began to turn. 

The night was long and the storm wrathful, the light, whose necessity therefore grew, had to be watched closely. Leroy, his skin cold and eyes drooping, found refuge in the night. Its shadows and bitter breath gave him comfort, a place to hide. The storm, however, was brutal. It ravaged and surrounded him- he preferred the still. 

Once the winds had momentarily died down and the rain lessened, Leroy ventured back to his home for a tool he had left. For a moment, he thought about staying. Abandoning the light and instead diving beneath a warm blanket. It was only after giving this a serious thought that he reluctantly went back out into the chaos. 

The sun triumphed the following morning, finally breaking through the wall of cloud. Leroy freed the docks of seaweed and surveyed the tides. He untied his weathered little boat from its dock and sailed up the rocky coastline. As he went, he surveyed the land- looking for something, though he wasn’t sure what. He soon headed back to the small island. The sun danced across the waters before sinking out of sight. 

Fluttering orbs decorated the sky above wisps of clouds, the night glistened with a cool mist. The scene was far from the grasp of last week’s storm. Leroy, however, hardly noticed the night's gift. He examined the Fresnel light before checking and refilling the lamp, then he trimmed and lit the wick and hand-cranked it to the top. So commenced another long, silent, night. 

Later, as he tried to sleep, fresh lavender wafted above his bed. It hung like a sour veil, trapping Leroy in that hell-like state where your mind plays, like film on a reel, memories, who leave a tart taste in the mouth and eyes salty and moist. 

A few mornings after, sheets of silver covered the sky. He stayed in bed a bit longer, finally, he forced himself out of his warm blankets and into the cold air. These actions came more from habit than consciousness. 

The days continued like this, fading into view and sinking beyond his eyes before he noticed what had occurred. Each night the wick was lit and the darkness broke and yet each night he felt the shadows swallowed him. 

A week had passed and a hazy rain moved in midmorning, for once, no wind accompanied it. Leroy sat beneath the house’s awning on a little metal chair, nibbling on a breakfast of cold bread. He listened to the frog’s talk and watched the insects dodge raindrops before diving beneath the protection of the foliage. He shifted his attention to the water. The tides were stale and hardly moving, it was easier under this weather, to see the many paths and rhythms of the water. It pushed from the main sea through the rocky beds of the shoreline where it collected into caves and pools. Seagulls sank through the skies and landed on the rough banks, they pecked at each crevice, desperately searching for bits of life.  

Dark and brooding clouds swept the skies for many nights- Leroy kept the light shining and his coat tight. The water mirrored the sky like a child imitating their father. The result was a never-ending horizon of deep and terrifying blue. 

Time passed, and it was during a particularly startling fit of lightning and the peak of day(though the skies were so darkened by storm it passed for night), when a booming knock echoed throughout the lighthouse door. Leroy paused what he was doing to listen- making sure the knocks were more than a mere clap of thunder. After feeling certain they were more, he headed down to answer them. 

Any visitors couldn’t have come from the sea as he would have seen them dock, this meant they were inlanders. This was quite a rare event. 

Hours later, Leroy sat on the edge of his bed staring out the jet black window, even if not visible, he knew he was staring into the churning sea. He felt betrayed and incompetent, perhaps even sad, but on the surface, to anyone with a glancing eye, he looked empty. A few board members had paid him a visit. A routine inspection they called it. They scanned each room and watched him perform tasks, all while grunting quite frequently. Usually, these annual inspections went by quickly, a few words jotted down onto their notepad and they’d be on their way. This time was different- they saw more dust than light and more faults than successes. As he let them out and headed back to his lighthouse, he realized why they had offered to prepare the tea and eyed him suspiciously when he paused his work to take a breath, he scoffed. Nonetheless, a seed of fear had been planted.  

A little over a month later another knock rang out into the morning. Leroy had just begun his tide surveys, and the interruption was, therefore, particularly irritating. 

He opened the door, the displeased look on his face was greeted with three shining faces. A younger man, possibly mid-30s, an equally-aged wife, and a small girl. The young child wore braids and grinned at him with only a few visible teeth. He scowled and shut the door. 

“No visitors,” he called from behind the thick wood. 

“Sir, we was sent here,” the young man replied. 

Leroy nudged the door open again. “Well, what for and by whom,” he grumbled with an emphasis on whom, for he enjoyed the use of modern English. 

“By Mr. Prescot and his board sir, see, we the new lighthouse keepers. That is, assistant lighthouse keepers. See cause you’d be the now lighthouse keeper.” 

Leroy was taken back. 

“I- I’m the lighthouse keeper; I didn’t see any notice about an assistant lighthouse keeper. There exists no such thing. Only need the one,” Leroy rambled. 

“Well sir, I'm Mr. Robert Kennedy, and this here's my wife Louanne and our daughter Mary. We’ll show you the letter and tell you all them fancy details if you’d just open the door. We’d sure love to sort through this. Musta been some mistake ya see,” Mr. Robert Kennedy said with a wide grin.

A little while later the Kennedy family sat with their trunks and a key in front of the second house on the opposite end of the island. The house was deteriorated from years of rough storms and held more than a few leaks; it had stood dormant for many years since during that time, only one keeper resided on the island. It seemed its dormant period had reached a halt. 

Leroy had reviewed the letter and reread it many times. Attempting to make sense of the bogus claims the board had made and its insistence on even more bogus terms. Leroy was to train this new man and teach the family how to keep. He was “too old,” to run the lighthouse by himself and was “approaching retirement age.” He knew legally they couldn’t force him to leave, though they could force him to relinquish his duties to this new man, and though he hated the latter, he felt he must keep his home. He reluctantly handed over the key, pointed them towards the empty house, and shut his door. 

The next day began with Robert standing earnestly at Leroy’s doorstep. His slacks were loose and his hair roughly combed, it was a poor attempt at cleanliness in Leroy's opinion. 

Days came and went, the senior lighthouse keeper reluctantly showed the apprentice the ropes, he explained how the wick needed to be lit at just the right angle and how each pane of glass had to shine clear. He showed him where each tool was kept and how each book was logged. He introduced him to his corner of the sea, and in turn, Robert made sure to memorize each detail. 

Meanwhile, Mrs. Kennedy and Mary scavenged the island for any bits of a home it could offer. They collected wildflowers to adorn their little house and small stones to mark its path. They dusted and swept; reveling in the sun and laughing as they worked. 

Leroy heard their echoes and saw them dart across the island out of the corner of his eye. He kept his face sullen, but the warmth in their sounds was nice. 

That night, tiny footsteps leapt up the lighthouses stairs, Mary had brought a plate of molasses cookies for her father and his mentor. Leroy refused a cookie, couldn’t the child see they were working.

Over the course of many months, Robert began to learn the ways of the island. He learned how each part of the lighthouse worked as a whole and how to adjust to a sleeping schedule only his line of work could offer. Though he might not yet recognize the winds many cries and each pattern in the water, Leroy had a sinking suspicion Robert might one day learn, and perhaps, even befriend, his island. 

Mary began to leave little treasures for Leroy, a wildflower outside his door, a pretty stone on the lighthouse steps. The little girl liked the old man, even if he was quite grumpy. He didn’t acknowledge the gifts, though his table was now coincidentally adorned with shimmering stones. 

Many mornings later Leroy woke, the night before had been the first he had allowed Robert to start and maintain the light. The first night he spent the bitter chills under blankets and not beneath that tall beacon whose light he had always been responsible for perpetuating. When he woke, beams of gold streamed in and tapped his face. Gulls danced beyond the window, they cried out happily into the morning mist. On his nightstand sat a plate of fresh molasses cookies.