The Lighthouse Keeper's Finale
The dictates of autumn had arrived punctually on Windmill Island. Palettes of amber, red, and gold festooned the trees; the flora parted for the cold sea breeze. Phoenix Bay lapped gently onto Windmill Island, where a lone lighthouse stood, its whitewashed walls stark against the changing colors. This was the home of Samuel Drayton, the lighthouse keeper.
Samuel was an old sailor, well advanced in age, carrying years of seafaring tales and wisdom. He was a seasoned lighthouse keeper now, with twenty-five years under his belt. He was a man of few words but of significant action, for his work involved guiding many lives across the tumultuous waters of Phoenix Bay.
One tragic storm tossed night in November, Samuel watched as the blackened waves rolled and crashed beneath him. He watched for an immaculate ship, the Morning Star, known for its immaculate punctuality. That night, however, the Morning Star was delayed. With a palpable sense of foreboding, he kept the light burning.
Hours morphed into days, days into a week. Still, there was no sign of the Morning Star, and hope started to wane, replaced by an unsettling feeling of melancholy. Samuel was no stranger to the moods of the sea, and he felt this particular absence like a personal blow. The solitude intensified the feeling, and the once warm beacon of the lighthouse felt somewhat colder.
But then, on the seventh day following the storm, as the sun began to bow out, there it was - a distant glistening speck splitting the horizon, signaling life. It was indeed the Morning Star. Samuel’s heart swelled both with relief and an inexplicable sense of dread.
As the speck grew closer, Samuel saw the ship’s battle against the sea. It was punctured and ragged, limping pitifully across the waters. And there, on the deck, was Captain William, waving a loose white flag.
Barely had the ship docked when Captain William burst into the lighthouse keeper's abode. He spoke of a terrifying storm and monstrous waves, of courage and despair, and most heartbreakingly, of a loss too profound for tears; half his crew had been claimed by the unforgiving sea.
William’s recounting moved Samuel deeply. And with a heavy heart, he performed one last duty. As dusk was devoured by the night, Samuel ascended the heart of the lighthouse, his lighthouse. He lit the lamp one final time, casting its powerful beam out over the abysmal darkness, a beacon of hope in despair. Looking at the lighthouse's reassuring light, the lost seamen's souls could find tranquillity, their spirits could find a home.
That night, the lighthouse's beam seemed to beam brighter and farther than ever before. A testament to the lived and lost lives, to Captain William’s bravery, to the undying spirit of the seamen. It was an illuminating connection between the world of spirit and the mortal coil. It was Samuel Drayton’s grand finale, a deserving tribute to his seafaring brothers.
By morning, Captain William had left, carrying with him the light of the lost souls. And Samuel, having fulfilled his duty to them, felt an unfamiliar but welcome sense of peace. It was time for him to pass the torch. The old sailor had grown weary, and the sea called him home.
The tale of the faithful lighthouse keeper spread across the sea and the neighboring towns. His unwavering dedication would be remembered by seamen and mariners for generations, and so would the tale of the Morning Star. His name would forever be twinned with the lighthouse on Windmill Island, a symbol of unwavering hope amid desolation, standing tall against the rages of time and tide.