It’s a lonely life at the lighthouse. We trim the wicks, tend the oil, polish the lenses, light the lamps. It’s hard on the wife, living on this desolate rock. It’s harder on my daughter. She lives for the days when visitors come. She wakes up each day asking if “someone’s coming to visit Papa today?” She runs to the window constantly, her two little golden braids bouncing behind her.

Sometimes she peers out into the distance as if the strength of her gaze is enough to draw someone, anyone, to her.

Sometimes she cries when there’s no one there.


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