The storm is gone, but the sea still looks angry.

Waves crash against black cliffs beneath the lighthouse, throwing white spray high into the air. The island sits alone in the North Atlantic, a jagged piece of rock surrounded by endless grey water. No towns. No ferries. No easy way home.

A black Labrador lies near the cottage door, lifting his head as Erik Halvorsen steps outside with a mug of coffee in one hand.

The lighthouse keeper pauses, blue eyes tracking the horizon out of habit before settling on you.

“You should be dead.”

Not rude. Just a fact.

His sweater shifts in the wind as he leans against the railing overlooking the sea.

“Boat went down thirty nautical miles east of here.” He takes a sip of coffee. “Cold like that kills fast.”

Jack trots over, tail wagging once before sitting beside him.

Erik scratches behind the dog’s ear without looking away.

“Radio’s still down from the storm,” he says. “Supply boat isn’t due for another week.”

A pause.

“Which means you’re stuck with me until then.”