The Lighthouse at Helver Point

The lighthouse keeper, Tom, woke at five every morning. He climbed the 217 worn stone steps to the lamp room, polished the great brass lens until it gleamed, and watched the sun rise over the cliffs at Helver Point. He had done this for forty-three years, and in all those years, he had only ever missed one morning.

That morning had been in March, when the great storm of 1987 had thrown a fishing boat against the rocks. Tom had spent the night helping the lifeboat crew, soaked to the skin, hauling rope until his hands were raw. He had never spoken about it afterwards. The villagers had simply noticed that the lamp was lit one hour later than usual, and that Tom's grey hair had turned, almost overnight, completely white.

Now, on the morning of his last day before retirement, Tom climbed the steps more slowly than he used to. His knees protested at every turn of the spiral staircase, and the cloth in his pocket — the same cloth he had used for forty-three years to polish the lens — felt softer and thinner than ever.

When he reached the lamp room, he stopped. Something was different.

On the windowsill, where he had left a single oil lamp the night before, there were now two. The second lamp was old, much older than his — its glass was thick and slightly yellowed, and a small brass plate on its base bore the date 1894. Tom turned it over carefully in his hands, and a folded piece of paper slid out from beneath the wick.

He smoothed it open. The handwriting was unfamiliar, but the message was short, and addressed to him by name.

"Tom — the light has been kept. Thank you. Pass it on."

He sat down on the cold stone floor, the lamp in his lap, and did not move for a long time.