The lighthouse stood at the end of a long green headland, where the grass grew short and soft from the salt wind. It had been lit every night for a very long time. Tonight was the first night it would rest.
Its keeper was an old woman named Maren, and she had known for a whole season that this evening would come. A newer light had been built farther along the coast, small and bright and able to look after itself. The ships no longer needed the old lamp. So Maren had decided that she would put it to bed properly, the way you would settle anyone who had worked hard for a long time.
She climbed the spiral stairs slowly, one hand on the smooth rail. The iron was cool under her palm, and each step gave a small familiar sound, a soft ring that rose up the tower ahead of her. There were one hundred and twelve steps. She had counted them many thousands of times, and she counted them again now, not because she needed to, but because it was pleasant.
At the top, the lamp room was warm and golden. The great lens turned slowly around the flame, throwing long arms of light across the dark water. Maren sat down on the wooden stool beside it and simply watched for a while. The light went out over the sea, and came back, and went out again. Below, the waves moved in their slow, patient way against the rocks, a sound like someone breathing in their sleep.
She took a soft cloth from her apron pocket and began to polish the brass fittings, one by one. She did not hurry. There was nowhere else she needed to be. The cloth smelled faintly of beeswax and of the lavender she kept in her pockets. The brass warmed under her hand and began to glow.
When the brass was bright, she wound the clockwork that turned the lens for the last time, only a little, so that it would slow down gently rather than stop all at once. The great glass eye turned more and more slowly. The beams of light swept wider and softer across the water, like someone stretching before bed.
Out on the sea, a small fishing boat passed on its way home, its own lantern bobbing. Maren raised her hand, though she knew no one could see her. It felt right to wave.
Then she reached for the brass wheel that lowered the flame. She turned it a quarter turn, and the light grew amber. She turned it again, and the light grew soft, the color of honey held up to a window. The lamp room filled with a warm, dim glow, and the shadows grew long and gentle on the curved walls.
“Thank you,” she said to the lamp, quietly. “You can rest now.”
She sat a while longer in that soft amber light. The tower was warm from the long day. The sea sighed below. Somewhere far down the coast, the new light blinked, steady and small, keeping watch so that no one else had to.
Maren’s eyes grew heavy. She pulled her wool shawl around her shoulders. The stool was comfortable, and the wall behind her was warm, and the sound of the waves came slow and even.
In. And out. In. And out.
The flame grew smaller. The glow grew softer. The lens turned once more, very slowly, and was still.
The lighthouse rested. The sea rested. And Maren, wrapped in her shawl, rested too.