What the Voice Asks

Putting out the light was the one thing a lighthouse keeper must never do. The light was the promise: as long as it turned, the boats knew where death was not.

—Who are you? —Una asked into the microphone, and her hand trembled less than she’d expected.

There was a long silence, the size of the Atlantic.

—I’m the one who arrives tonight —said the voice—. And I can only come in if the lighthouse is dark.

Una looked at the spiral staircase rising toward the lantern. A hundred and twenty steps. For the first time in years, she didn’t know whether she was climbing to light something or to put it out.