I've been gone for six years, and I swear the shore is a few inches narrower than it used to be. G'tewa's tide lazes across the wet sand, claiming every footprint for her own. Midday clouds mute the sunlight. Seagulls circle over me, their cries piercing the whisper of the ocean.

In one hand, I carry a suitcase of all my belongings: clothes, toiletries, my one extra pair of shoes, the one textbook I didn't rent. In the other, I fist a note from Branson Cay that instructs me to meet him at the lighthouse by one p.m.

 

My pocket watch, my last gift from Uncle Sterling, tells me that it's a quarter past one.

 

I have never been late to anything in my life.
 

Standing here, where the coarse grass and pale sands meet, I breathe in the salt air. G'tewa is gentle today, her waves tumbling
instead of crashing. The weather is temperate enough that quite a few families have strewn picnic blankets over the beach. Parents watch their children collect sea shells; a dog kicks up sand as it sprints after a gull; laughter and smiling words reach my ears like the drone of a death march.
 

At twenty-four minutes past my meeting time, I finally pry myself away from this spot and the memories it force-feeds me. The main road that walks parallel to Hefsevain proper is busy today. An overflow of traveling merchants have set up stall to entrap anyone walking by. I nod politely at a man who waves me over to inspect an array of clay vases ("Handcrafted in the heart of the Sunstruck Empire! There's no finer craftsmanship than what you'll find just here!") and keep walking.

 

The bridge that stretches over the eastern delta is adorned with wreaths of summer dewdrop flowers. A pair of siblings leans over the side of the bridge, tossing rocks into the river's current and squealing at every grand splash.

I block the image of Uncle Sterling perching me up on the wall as a boy, teaching me how to spot the fish beneath the white foam.
 

Eastern Hefsevain is quieter. The buildings to my right belong to residents—mostly families who've shoved two or three generations under one roof. Someone is busking in the village square, the fluttering notes of a flute coaxing bluebirds out of hiding.
 

Acorns and brittle twigs litter the path that leads up to the lighthouse. The hill inclines slowly, then all at once. I can sense people watching me curiously from the main road; I wonder if they think I'm lost, or if a few of them even recognize me as the late keeper's great-nephew.
 

I doubt it's the latter. After all, it has been six years.
 

The front door of my great-uncle's cottage creaks open when I crest the hill. Only slightly out of breath, I stride forward to greet Branson Cay on the porch.
 

"Theodore," he says warmly, taking my outstretched hand and yanking me into a bear hug. I stagger and pat his back, choking on his overwhelming scent of quill ink.
 

"It's good to see you, Mister Cay." I pull away first, taking an inconspicuous gulp of fresher air. The wind here graces me with G'tewa's clean aroma. "Forgive my tardiness."
 

He chuckles and waves a hand. "I figured this would be a difficult journey. I'm sure you're tired from your travels." His small blue eyes flicker over me, and some emotion I can't name fills his stare. "You've grown into quite the young man, haven't you?"
 

My twenty-fifth birthday is in a couple weeks, but I don't feel much different now than when I was eighteen. Time, I'm sure, has changed me in ways I can't see. If I were to be honest, I feel like an under-ripe fruit plucked from its branch before it had the chance to grow itself into anything palatable.
 

Branson doesn't know what to do with my silence, so he clears his throat and gestures to the cottage. "Shall we?"

I fist my luggage tighter, schooling my face into neutrality. "Alright."

The speckled rust on the hinges hasn't changed, nor has the groan of the floorboards beneath my feet. Crossing the threshold
shoves me back into some dusty, forgotten corner of my memory. Trying to make way for me, Branson stumbles into the coat rack by the door. Uncle Sterling's old jackets, which he never bothered to patch up, still hang from its branches. The shoe box sitting on top of the supply crates is full, save for one compartment—the one where I'd always stow my boots.

I leave my shoes on now as Branson leads me into the kitchen. If it weren't for the letter seared into my mind, I'd have thought Uncle Sterling was only resting in the bedroom. Pots and pans litter the kitchen sink; a mug sits at my great-uncle's place at the table; a breeze drifts through the offset window.

"I'd have cleaned up a bit," Branson explains, "but I, ah, wasn't sure if you wanted me moving your uncle's things around."

"It would have been okay." If not for the simple fact that I wouldn't have had to tidy up, then to spare me the illusion that
someone still lived here.

"That old Briar did leave everything to you," Branson says. "As it's your name in the will and not mine, it didn't seem my place."

I nod, understanding, but I still wish I'd walked into a clean house. The placement of all this clutter feels too... alive.

"You remember where everything is, I presume." Branson holds his arms out in a halfhearted show of the place. "Not much has
changed since you left."

Again, I nod, but Branson is wrong. Everything has changed.

"Now," he says, stroking that white cushion of a beard, "there's the matter of the lighthouse. I know your great-uncle wanted you to take his place, but it's not actually up to him to decide who becomes the next keeper."

A frown tugs at my mouth, and I set my suitcase down to cross my arms. "But the cottage belongs—sorry, belonged to him. It's mine now, isn't it? That's why I left Sillagos."

"The home is yours," Branson affirms, "but whether you're qualified for the job is another question. See, Sterling Briar was just one of some ten-or-so keepers who've operated Hefsevain Light. Every one of those keepers knew the demands of the position and underwent extensive training to prepare themselves for the job."

"I grew up here." Sort of. I correct myself: "I spent all my summers here. They weren't just vacations in between school terms;
I helped my uncle when he needed it."

"But you've not been back for some time. Hefsevain Light needs someone who is dedicated to this location."

I don't miss the unspoken accusation—that I left Hefsevain and never looked back, leaving my dear uncle bereft and lonely in his old age—nor do I appreciate Branson's commentary.

"Mister Cay," I start, rolling the stiffness from my neck, "if I weren't dedicated to this position, I'd have never left the university. Especially not when I was sitting on the cusp of my last year."

The memory of it all leaves a bitter taste in my mouth, so I ground myself in this moment. Each inhale lasts four counts; every
exhale crawls to five.

Branson studies me like I'm a mirage of someone he once knew. Any rapport we once shared has, much like the shoreline, weathered over the years. His brown paddy cap shadows his eyes, but I'm not oblivious to his skepticism. Still, he manages to flash a smile beneath that cloud of white hair and says, "Old Briar would've given anything to see the man you've become."

My gaze drops. I don't want to think of what Uncle Sterling would say if he could see me now.

A ring of keys chimes as Branson fishes it from his pocket. I recognize their melody before setting my eyes on the keys to the
lighthouse. Uncle Sterling used to carry the ring on his utility belt; in my boyhood, I'd pretend that they would unlock a door to another world, where I'd escape the sordid guardianship of my grandparents.

I once dreamed of being the keeper of the keys. Now, when Branson presses the ring into my palm, it's more like he's burdened
me with the weight of the entire world.

"This is... uncustomary," he says, like it pains him. "But I know your great-uncle cared a great deal for you."

And I for him.

The words catch in my throat, and I swallow hard.

Branson levels a careful gaze on me. "This ain't a job for the faint-hearted, Theo. Your uncle had his fair share of harrowing
nights. Gets quite lonely up on this hill, you see, with nothing but G'tewa to keep you company."

"I don't mind solitude." In fact, I craved it more than anything when I lived in Sillagos. "And I'll take care of the lighthouse."
If not for the sake of every seafarer drifting off the coastline, then for my Uncle Sterling's memory. Rightfully or not, he bestowed Hefsevain Light in my care. It was my choice to accept; I don't intend to go back on my word like I did all those years ago, when I swore I'd return.

My fist closes around the keys. Floorboards creak as Branson shifts his weight.

"Well, then," he says, tilting his head toward the back door, where the lighthouse will greet us, "let's get you reacquainted with
the ole girl, shall we?"