Margen
The voice rose up the stairwell the way water rises in a sinking ship: unhurried and beyond remedy.
Una had her hand on the lantern switch. Two possible gestures, one up and one down. To light it was to keep seventy years of an oath: that as long as the lighthouse turned, no boat would mistake the rock for the harbour. To darken it was to open the door to what was already almost on the last step.
—I’m not going to put it out —said Una, and this time her voice did not tremble.
—I know —the other answered, very close now, almost tenderly—. You always choose the light. That’s why I chose you.
She switched it on. The beam leapt over the black sea like a white lash. When she turned around, the lantern room was empty: no one at the door, no one on the stairs. Only, on the table, the watch logbook open to a page dated this very night. And the handwriting that filled it, cramped and shaking, was her own.