The Sleepy Lighthouse

When the sky went purple over the harbor, the lighthouse keeper unlocked her tower door. She was small and grey-haired and always slightly tired, the way lighthouse keepers tend to be.

Up the spiral stairs they climbed together, two hundred and twelve steps in all, counted out loud. At the top was the great lamp — a glass-and-brass machine the size of a kitchen table.

"All set?" said the keeper, with a yawn. The lamp clicked, hummed, and began to spin. Once, twice, three times. Out on the water, a small fishing boat caught the beam and turned slowly toward home.

Above them, Stella the star looked down with quiet approval. She did this most evenings — she considered it her job to help lost things find their way back. Boots. Mittens. Sleepy fishermen. The right page in the right book.

"Thank you, Stella," said the keeper, and Stella twinkled politely.

Below, the town began to glow. Yellow squares in every window. Smoke rising from chimneys in slow soft curls. A cat walking home along a wall. Bicycles being put away for the night.

The lamp kept spinning. Once, twice, three times. Once, twice, three times.

Down at the dock, the fishing boat tied itself up. The fisherman walked up the hill with his hands in his pockets, whistling something old.

The keeper rested her chin on her hand and watched the lamp do its slow important work.

"All right," she said, eventually, to no one in particular. "I think tonight will be a quiet one."

And it was.