Morning arrived softly, as if the world didn't want to disturb the tower.
Elara woke on the narrow cot below the lantern room, sunlight threading through the small window and warming her face. For a moment, she listened—truly listened—and felt something she hadn't felt in years.
Peace.
Above her, the lighthouse hummed with a deeper, steadier rhythm. Not louder. Not brighter. Younger.
She climbed the stairs.
Mira stood at the lens, hands resting lightly on the housing, eyes open but unfocused. She wasn't staring at the sea—she was with it, holding the boundary the way Elara once had.
Mira turned and smiled.
"It's quiet today."
Elara nodded.
"That's how you know you did it right."
They stood together as the beam completed its slow arc. Outside, a fishing boat moved along the edge of the light, safe and unknowing. The sea rolled beneath it—alive, restless, but restrained.
Mira broke the silence.
"When you stepped back last night… I felt it. The tower shifted. Like it knew."
Elara leaned against the railing.
"It did. The lighthouse isn't stone and glass. It's memory shaped into purpose. It remembers every keeper."
Mira hesitated.
"Does it… remember the ones who stayed too long?"
Elara's gaze softened.
"Yes. That's why we don't."
She reached into her coat and withdrew a small brass key—simple, worn smooth by time.
"This opens the lower archives," she said, placing it in Mira's palm. "Logs, charts, names. Learn them. Honor them. But don't let them anchor you."
Mira closed her fingers around the key.
"And you?"
Elara looked out at the horizon, where the light met open water.
"I'll go inland. Find a place that doesn't smell like salt." A faint smile. "I'll sleep through storms."
A pause.
"Will the sea follow you?" Mira asked quietly.
Elara shook her head.
"No. It knows where the watch is kept now."
The lighthouse chimed—a single, low tone that resonated through the tower. Not a warning. A farewell.
Mira's eyes widened.
"It's… saying goodbye."
Elara felt a tightness in her throat, but she nodded.
"Yes."
They descended together to the door. Elara stopped, hand on the frame, feeling the warmth one last time.
"Remember," she said, meeting Mira's gaze, "listen without answering. Hold the line. And when the light hesitates—trust yourself."
Mira straightened, steady.
"I will."
Elara stepped outside.
The door closed gently behind her.
Above, the beam swept on—constant, unwavering, awake.
And as Elara walked down the path and the lighthouse receded behind her, the sea shifted—not in anger, not in hunger—but in acknowledgment.
The watch had been passed.
The light did not sleep.