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The lighthouse, a beacon of hope and guidance, stood watch over the dark waters of the harbor, its weathered stone walls a testament to the enduring power of the sea.

Every evening, Mara climbed the lighthouse stairs and sent three flashes across an empty sea.

The harbour had closed years ago. The fishing boats were flower boxes now. Even the gulls had moved to the supermarket roof.

“Who are you signalling?” her neighbour asked.

“Anyone who needs a shore.”

On the first foggy night of winter, three flashes answered.

Mara checked the old charts. Beyond the reef: no island, no buoy, nothing that could carry a light. She lifted the binoculars anyway.

A small boat emerged, towing another. Its engine coughed. On the bow, a child held a torch with both hands.

By morning, six strangers were eating toast in her kitchen. Nobody asked why the lighthouse still