Chapter 20
The lighthouse had become a storykeeper.
Visitors began to arrive not just for the view, but for the feeling — that quiet, unspoken reverence that wrapped around the cliffs and soaked into the bones of anyone who stayed too long. They came curious. They left softened.
Amira started hosting small gatherings — not readings, exactly, but remembrances. People came to speak the names they had no graves for. Lost mothers. Drowned brothers. Forgotten lovers. She recorded their stories, one by one, in a leather-bound journal she called The Book of Echoes.
Elias, once withdrawn and guarded, became the gentle steward of their little sanctuary. He offered tea. Fixed things. Listened more than he spoke. But when he did speak, it was with intention — like someone who had learned how to honor the weight of silence.
One rainy afternoon, a young girl named Zaya arrived with her grandmother.
Zaya stood at the memorial tree, reading the two stones — Selene and Mirabelle.
She looked up at Amira and asked, "Why are their names here?"
Amira knelt beside her. "Because once, no one remembered them. Now… we do."
The child thought for a moment, then whispered, "Can I put my mama's name here too?"
Amira nodded, swallowing her ache.
Together, they placed a smooth stone beneath the others.
It read:
Tomi — The Brightest Light.
That night, Amira and Elias stood on the lighthouse balcony, watching the rain fade into mist. The sea was quiet, gentle.
Elias turned to her. "You've become the keeper now."
"The keeper of what?"
He smiled. "Of quiet things. Of names. Of peace."
Amira looked out toward the horizon, where dusk bloomed violet and the first stars began to pierce the sky.
"No," she said softly. "We are."