By morning the storm had blown itself out, and the sea lay flat and pale beneath a clean sky. Coast guard cutters had boarded the trawler. A regional inspector was walking the shingle with Teodor, taking samples, and a reporter was already asking Mara for a quote while Mara, flustered and glowing, tried to explain that she was only the bookkeeper. Dale Pruitt sat on the harbor wall with his hands on his knees, waiting for someone to tell him what happened next.
Nora climbed the ninety-nine steps one more time and found Elias at the window of the lamp room, watching the water. “The court will have to un-declare me dead,” he said, with something like a smile. “That will be a lot of paperwork.” “I know a good archivist,” Nora said.
They stood together for a while, shoulder to shoulder, the lens warm and silent behind them. She had come to sell the lighthouse. Instead she opened the green logbook, found a fresh page, and wrote in blue ink: Wind light. Sea calm. Visibility good. Lamp lit. All boats accounted for.
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