Creaking door with a strip of light. A way out.
Ruthless wind flies inside. I hide.
Grasp. My hands latch onto the metal residue (is it copper?) of the rusted walls.
The fog is calling.
The power is humming through rubber-coated wires.
I hear a horn in the distance. I climb the final rickety step.
Hands accustomed and proud, I switch on every necessary button in the tower.
The powerful hum surges into a constant note.
The horn diminishes. The ship has traveled through the vapor.
I remain, frozen, waiting. Boats keep to themselves.
The lighthouse is ready.