Chapter IV

In the days following the storm, Thomas found himself changed. The rescue had shaken something loose inside him—some wall he had built between himself and the world. He had come to Beacon Isle seeking solitude, seeking to escape the connections and responsibilities that had caused him such pain. But in the moment of crisis, he had discovered something he had not expected: purpose.

The supply boat arrived on schedule, Captain Moorhouse bringing news from the mainland along with provisions. The rescued sailors had all survived. They spoke of a signal from the lighthouse, rockets fired in the storm. Thomas accepted the captain's thanks with quiet dignity, but said nothing of the ghostly keepers who had alerted him to the danger.

After the captain departed, Thomas returned to the log book. He read through it again, but this time with different eyes. The previous keepers had not been mad. They had been honest—recording what they experienced, even when it defied explanation. And now he understood why they had all eventually left.

Not because the island had driven them to madness, but because they had been called to something else. Each had served their purpose here, had kept the light burning when it mattered most, and then moved on. All except the first keeper, Samuel Garrett, whose final entry Thomas had not previously noticed.

January 7th, 1853. My time here ends. I have kept the light for six years, through storm and calm, and now I understand its true purpose. This lighthouse does not merely guide ships—it binds something. Keeps something at bay. The fog is not weather. It is a threshold, and we keepers are its guardians. I go with no regret. The light will not fail. Others will come.

That night, the fog returned. Thomas watched it roll in from his position in the lamp room, moving with that same purposeful quality that Margaret Thorne had noted in her journal. It pooled in the low places, crept up the rocks, surrounded the lighthouse like a living thing.

And within it, voices began to call.

Thomas did not flee. Instead, he descended from the lighthouse and walked out into the fog. It was cold and damp, but not unpleasant. The voices grew clearer as he moved among the rocks—not threatening, but welcoming. Familiar.

"Thomas Wren," they said, and he recognized them now. The previous keepers, their spirits bound to this place not by curse but by choice. They had stayed to help, to guide those who came after. To ensure the light never failed.

"Why me?" he asked the fog. "Why was I called here?"

A figure materialized before him—Samuel Garrett, the first keeper, his face kind despite the decades of death that separated them.

"You were lost," Samuel said, his voice carrying through the mist. "As we all were when we came here. This place has a way of finding those who need it, and whom it needs in turn. You asked for solitude, for escape from pain. But what you truly sought was meaning. Purpose."

"And the light? What does it truly guard against?"

Samuel smiled sadly. "Darkness, Thomas. Not the darkness of night, which is natural and necessary, but the darkness of despair. Of souls lost and forgotten. This island sits at a threshold between worlds. The light keeps that boundary clear. It shows the way home to those who have lost their path, whether they sail on water or drift in other currents."

"How long must I stay?"

"Until your purpose is fulfilled. You will know when that time comes. It may be months, it may be years. But you will know."

The figure began to fade, but Thomas called out once more. "The keeper before me—William Marsh. He fled. Why?"

Samuel's expression grew troubled. "He heard his wife's voice in the fog. But it was not her spirit calling—she still lives, on the mainland, grieving him. What he heard was his own guilt, his own fear. He could not distinguish between the voices that help and the echoes of his own conscience. So he ran, as some do. You are stronger, I think."

And then Samuel was gone, and Thomas stood alone in the fog. But he did not feel alone. He felt, for the first time in years, that he belonged somewhere. That he was part of something larger than himself.

He returned to the lighthouse, climbed to the lamp room, and made an entry in the log.

I understand now. The light is not just for ships. It is for all who are lost. I will keep it burning.

Outside, the fog began to recede, pulling back toward the sea. And in its depths, Thomas heard what might have been voices raised in approval, or simply the wind finding its way through the rocks.

Either way, he smiled.