The Lighthouse

Bernard had lived his whole life on St. David’s Island, a close-knit community on Bermuda's eastern edge, where everyone knew each other’s business—whether they wanted to or not. People whispered about him; he was known as a bit of a loner who kept mostly to himself. The sea was his true companion, and every morning he could be found there, casting his line off the dock with a thermos of lukewarm coffee by his side.

But one thing about him puzzled the locals—his evening ritual. Just before sunset, like clockwork, he would walk the same route, his weathered cap in hand, until he reached the old decommissioned St. David’s lighthouse. Yet, without fail, he went there—and no one knew why.

Some said he was haunted by memories of the unspoken tragedy of his wife, taken by a storm. Nonetheless, his nightly walk became one of those quiet unknown mysteries. Occasionally, someone would ask him about it, but he never gave an answer, nodding politely and tipping his hat as he walked by.

One crisp October evening, with the sea breeze sharp and twilight settling over the island like a blanket, he set out again, his coat pulled tight against the wind. The evening colors softened to rich purples and blues as he passed local fishers mooring their boats, the old boys gathered at the dock calling out their usual greetings.

But tonight, something felt… different. The usual island buzz of voices and distant radios had fallen silent, and the air carried a strange heaviness, as though the whole place was holding its breath.

As he approached the lighthouse, its cold stone casting a long shadow, his heartbeat quickened, and his steps slowed as he neared the rocks overlooking the sea. He looked up at the lighthouse, as he always did, but just as he was about to turn back, he saw her.

A young woman, stood at the edge of the rocks, her long hair wild in the breeze, her white dress glowing in the dim light. She looked out to sea, calm and unhurried. As he approached, he felt a strange familiarity, like the echo of a half-remembered dream.

"Miss?" he asked, his voice rough from disuse.

She turned slowly, and he saw something familiar in her eyes. Her gaze was steady, her face achingly familiar, though he could not place her.

"I’ve been waiting for you," she said softly.

He blinked, taken aback, a forgotten ache stirring in his chest. “Do I… do I know you?”

She nodded, a gentle smile on her lips. “You did once. I think you’ve been looking for me all this time.”

His heart pounded, fragments of memories surfacing. He had spent many years feeling something was missing, though he could never name it. He felt a powerful sense of recognition, as if he had finally found it. But before he could speak, she turned and, in a flash, she vanished into the waves.

Panicked, he ran after her, calling out, his voice cracking. But when he reached the water’s edge, there was nothing, only the empty waves crashing against the rocks.

As he looked down, his reflection stared back—an old man alone, and there, hanging around his neck, was a locket that he didn’t remember putting on.

It felt warm and familiar in his palm, and as he opened it, he saw an engraved inscription: To Lillian, my light.

And suddenly he knew. Lillian was his wife’s name, lost to him in a storm, her memory buried within long ago, as deeply as the ocean’s depths.