Kasper always worried the colder currents held secrets not meant for the peaceful surface. Since the night fisherman's silhouettes against the slowing tides warned him of many things, the path to the lighthouse became more of a pilgrimage than necessity. And there it stood, with stoic defiance, blind and feeble in its purpose.
"Lights have to shine again, da," he muttered under a rusty breath infused with salt, each syllable holding stretched hopes within their echo. Stones crumpled into noise beneath worn boots, marking his journey to her heart—weathervane limbs lean still and grasping for meaning against stern winds.
As tales and teachings murmured like mollusks—mbelesa, tsunami whales playing ever eternally—a drift of thoughts: "We keep standing... highest when worn low." The erasure lineage lay as smooth as furrowed glance atop ruffled panes.