**The Last Lighthouse Keeper**
The storm raged against the cliffs, waves crashing like thunder against the jagged rocks below. Elias Grayson adjusted his oilskin coat and climbed the spiral staircase of the Blackthorn Lighthouse, his bones aching with each step. For forty years, he had kept the light burning, guiding ships safely through the treacherous waters. But tonight felt different.
The radio had crackled to life an hour earlier—a distress signal from the *Aurora*, a cargo ship caught in the storm. Their navigation was down, their engines failing. Elias had assured them the light would guide them to the bay. But as he reached the lantern room, his breath caught in his throat.
The great Fresnel lens was dark.
The bulb had blown.
Elias scrambled for the spare, hands shaking. Outside, the wind howled like a vengeful spirit. He could hear the distant groan of the *Aurora*’s hull straining against the waves. If he didn’t act fast, the ship would be dashed against the rocks.
But as he fitted the new bulb, a shadow moved in the corner of his vision. A figure stood at the far end of the lantern room—a man in an old sailor’s coat, his face gaunt and pale. Elias knew him at once.
Captain Jeremiah Cole.
The first keeper of Blackthorn Lighthouse.
The man who had died keeping the light burning a century ago.
"You’ve done well, Elias," the ghost whispered. "But some storms are meant to take their due."
Elias’s hands stilled. Outside, the *Aurora*’s horn blared in desperation. He looked at the ghost, then at the light.
And he made his choice.
With a deep breath, he turned the lens. The beam ignited, cutting through the storm like a blade. The *Aurora*’s silhouette shifted, turning just in time to avoid the rocks.
When Elias looked back, the ghost was gone.
The storm would pass. The light would keep burning.
And the sea would always call its own.
