The lighthouse had been closed for years, but Ethan liked it better that way.
When it was open, adults came with cameras and questions and rules, pointing at things and telling each other what was safe and what wasn’t. They talked too much and listened too little. When it was closed, it belonged to the wind, the waves, and anyone quiet enough to listen. The silence felt honest here, untouched. Ethan came when his thoughts got loud, when ideas tangled in his head and refused to settle. The lighthouse didn’t ask him to explain anything. It didn’t judge, didn’t interrupt, didn’t expect him to be normal or predictable. It just stood there and existed, and somehow that was enough.
That evening, the sky hung low and gray, as if the ocean had reached up and pulled it closer, trying to keep it
