The Cliff Path
The cliff path climbs the headland in switchbacks, gorse on one side and a considerable amount of nothing on the other. The town's lights recede below, warm and small. Ahead, the lighthouse door: iron-bound oak, older than the tower around it, with a keyhole worn bright by centuries of one key.
Set in the door at eye height is a small brass plate, polished by weather:
THE LIGHT KEEPS WHAT THE TOWN LOSES.
You try the handle. Locked, of course. Locked like a promise.