Margen
A boat of the living against a beloved name. The tide was already high and the voice waited in the air, patient as only those who are no longer in any hurry know how to wait.
—One hour —it asked—. Just one hour of darkness and I’ll go with you. No more waiting.
Una looked at the two lights nearing the rocks. She looked at the switch. And she understood that for nine years she’d been asking herself the wrong question. The lighthouse was not there to put out the dead nor to save the living: it was there to keep watching the sea every night, which is the only way we have of never quite letting anyone go.
—I’m not going to put it out —she said for the last time—. But you’re not leaving either. Every time the light turns, I’ll be looking for you. That’s the hour I give you: all of them.
The beam swept the water. The fishing boat corrected its course, dodged the rock and vanished, safe, toward the harbour. And in the sea, where before there had been a weight, Una suddenly felt an old calm, like when a door that has been banging in the wind for years is finally shut.
At dawn, the radio —the real one— crackled. The fishing boat’s captain was giving thanks. «Two lights guided us to the harbour mouth,» he said. «Two. The lighthouse’s and another, lower one, right at water level. I thought you’d put a dinghy out.»
Una had no dinghy out. She smiled for the first time in nine winters and climbed up to clean the lantern glass for the following night.