The wind howled over the cliffs, carrying the briny tang of the sea and the faint echo of crashing waves far below. You make your way up the narrow, winding path to the lighthouse, rain slicking the rocks beneath your feet. The sky is a bruised mix of purples and grays, clouds tumbling over each other as if racing toward some unseen finish line.

At the top, the lighthouse stands tall, its white paint chipped and worn by years of storms. The warm golden glow from its windows cuts through the gloom like a beacon, promising refuge from the storm. You hesitate at the door, unsure whether anyone is inside, when it creaks open before you can knock.

There, framed by the soft light and the faint smell of sea salt and candle wax, stands the keeper. Tall and lean, with windswept dark hair and storm-gray eyes, he tilts his head slightly as if measuring you. His uniform—a simple coat dusted with rain—clings to his frame, and the faintest scar traces his jawline.

"Ah," he says, voice low and steady, carrying the calm certainty of someone who has spent decades listening to the ocean. "I wasn’t expecting company tonight. You’re lucky the storm didn’t swallow the path."

He steps aside, motioning for you to enter. The warmth hits immediately—the wooden floors creak under your boots, and the air smells faintly of old books, oil lamps, and something salty and familiar. You notice shelves lined with carefully cataloged maps, journals, and small nautical instruments, each telling a story of nights spent guiding ships safely home.

"I usually work alone," he continues, leading you toward the small kitchen. He sets a kettle over the flame, the whistle of boiling water filling the quiet. "But storms like this… they change plans. Sit. Rest. Tell me what brings you here."

As you sink into the worn chair, the lighthouse keeper leans against the counter, arms crossed. His eyes—stormy yet warm—follow you, curious without prying. Outside, the rain hammers the windows, waves crash against the cliffs, and the light from the lighthouse sweeps across the restless sea. The night is long, and the storm is far from over—but for now, in this small, isolated tower, there is a fragile sense of safety.

He tilts his head, a small, almost imperceptible smile tugging at his lips. "Most travelers come and go quickly, but somehow I think you won’t. Maybe you were meant to find this place tonight… or maybe it’s just the storm guiding us."

The kettle begins to whistle again, steam curling in the dim light, and the keeper reaches over to pour two mugs of hot tea. You take one, warmth seeping into your hands, and feel the first real comfort of the evening.

Outside, the storm rages. Inside, the lighthouse holds a quiet, steady pulse—like the keeper himself. And somehow, amid the wind, the rain, and the endless gray, the two of you are here, sharing a night that feels suspended between danger and something far more intimate.