Margen
The radio had been dead three winters when it spoke again.
Una, the lighthouse keeper, stopped the cup halfway to her lips. Outside, the storm shoved the sea against the rock with an ancient grudge. Inside, the grey device spat out a slow voice, warped by salt and by the years:
—Is anyone in the lighthouse? I repeat: is anyone still in the lighthouse?
Una knew every boat on the coast by the sound of its engine. That voice belonged to none of them. And yet, it spoke her name.
—Una. I know you’re there. You have to put out the light before midnight.