The old lighthouse on Blackthorn Cliff hadn't shone in over fifty years.
The last keeper, Henry Graves, had died inside it—alone, forgotten.
The town let the place rot, the lantern room rusted shut, the spiral stairs crumbling.
No one went near it.
Until the light came back on.
It started on a foggy night.
A bright, golden beam cut through the mist, sweeping over the sea.
Fishermen saw it first.
Then the night watchman.
Then the whole town.
People gathered by the shore, staring in disbelief.
There was no power.
No workers.
No one inside.
But the lighthouse was awake.
Shining.
Calling.
The mayor sent a repairman the next morning.
He climbed the rocky path, pushing open the heavy wooden door.
Inside, dust coated everything.
Cobwebs clung to the walls.
The air smelled of salt and rot.
But the stairs were… wet.
Like someone had tracked in seawater.
Like someone had just been there.
He climbed up, step by step.
His breath echoed.
The lantern room was locked, just as it had been for years.
He hesitated, then forced it open.
The massive glass lens sat in the center—unlit.
Cold.
Dead.
Yet the light had been shining.
He stepped closer.
That's when he saw it.
Footprints.
Leading from the lantern.
Damp.
Bare.
And in the reflection of the glass—
Someone standing behind him.
They found the repairman at the bottom of the cliffs.
Broken.
Drowned.
The town tried to ignore it.
Called it an accident.
But the lighthouse kept shining.
Every night.
And some swore they saw a figure inside.
A man in an old keeper's uniform, staring out to sea.
Watching.
Waiting.
For the next visitor.