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The Old Lighthouse The wind carried the sharp smell of salt across the empty shore. Clara stood at the bottom of the stone steps, staring up at the old lighthouse that had stood here for more than a hundred years. No one had lit its lamp for decades. She pulled her coat tighter and began to climb. Each step was worn smooth by rain and waves. When she reached the top, she pushed open the rusted iron door. Inside, dust floated in the thin silver light from the window. The big lens sat still, quiet, like it was waiting for someone to wake it up. Clara touched the cold metal gently. Her grandfather had been the last keeper of this lighthouse. He once told her that the light did not only guide ships. It guided people who felt lost, even on land. Outside, the sun started to sink into the sea. Orange and pink painted the sky. For a moment, Clara imagined the bright beam spinning round and round, cutting through the dark, reaching far out over the endless water. A soft wave crashed against the rocks below. She smiled. Some lights never truly die.
