The beam turns through the night as it always does. I watched it circle three times before I realized I'd been standing here for an hour. The monotony isn't unwelcome—it's become a kind of companion.
The beam turns through the night as it always does. I watched it circle three times before I realized I'd been standing here for an hour. The monotony isn't unwelcome—it's become a kind of companion.
A gull landed on the railing this morning. We regarded each other. It flew away. I suppose we had nothing to say. Time moves differently here.
Fog rolled in at dusk. The light became softer, less urgent. In the whiteness, I felt less alone somehow. The fog asks nothing of me but patience.
Counting the stairs has become a meditation. 127 steps up, 127 steps down. The numbers anchor me. They are true. They are enough.
I saw a distant ship tonight. Its lights blinked once, twice. I wonder if anyone aboard could see me—a solitary glow keeping watch. Perhaps we are all just lights in the dark, signaling that we endure.