I found the lighthouse on a Saturday morning while I was running uphill from the harbor.
The grounds were fenced, but the gate stood open. A path wound between the grass and the old stone tower. I slowed at the entrance, then followed it to the bottom of the steps.
Miles's story had started here. I wanted to see the place for myself, to find out whether anything about it could explain the way he'd turned a dream into a rule.
The lighthouse smelled of wet stone and old wood. Its door hung open, and the spiral stairs vanished into shadow above me. I didn't go in. I stood at the threshold and listened to the wind.
"You're trespassing," a woman called.
I turned. An older woman in a green raincoat stood by the gate with a ring of keys at her waist.
"Sorry. I thought the grounds were open.
