The Edgekeeper

Silence. Only the murmur of the sea below, and the invisible hum of a full moon suspended in air. The lighthouse does not shine tonight. It doesn’t need to. It stands as a witness, not a guide. Years have passed since anyone walked that winding path of stone, yet the presence of every unspoken farewell still lingers in the air.

Moonlight doesn’t reflect. It pierces. It falls upon the sea like a sheet of molten silver, outlining an abyss that does not frighten — but does ask. What remains, and what fades? What does a lighthouse guard, when there are no more ships?

It is summer, yet there is no warmth — only a gentle breeze that smells of salt and forgotten echoes, as if the season itself refuses to leave, even though everything else already has.

The scene does not cry out. It does not plead. It simply waits.

Like a dream too solemn to awaken.