Byrne Macleod lived alone at the lighthouse for forty years. Every night he lit the torch and watched the dark ocean for ships that never passed the rocky shore.
“Why stay, Grand Da?” His great-grandson, fisherman’s heir to seas stripped bare, asked each time he rowed over to the island.
“Someone must wait for them.”
Great waters rose and receded, wars raged and cities burned with plague while Byrne kept vigil. Through eyes dimmed by salt spray he searched the waves.
At last they came, the voyagers. The celestial ships hovered overhead, their journey not by sea but by stars.
- Inspired by the photo above and prompted by http://www.phantomsway.com/2019/09/13/fiction-friday-100-word-challenge-a-light-house-maybe/