Somewhere on the edge of the world, the whispers of the cosmos collide with the sea's endless sigh. Here, the lighthouse stands—its beam a sentinel piercing the veil between what is and what could be.
The old keeper, they say, had conversations with stars. He claimed the stars told him secrets of the universe. One evening, under a crescent moon, he told me about a star that flickers like an ember, somewhere far beyond the reach of time.
"In the sea of stars, we are droplets, celestial wanderers searching for the shores of home," he said, his eyes reflecting galaxies unknown.
Perhaps his mind was adrift in cosmic currents, or perhaps he saw the universe more clearly than most of us ever will. Each beam from the lighthouse is a reminder of paths untraveled, a warning of storms unseen.
The smell of salt and the rhythm of the waves compose a symphony only understood by those willing to listen. Here, the line between reality and illusion blurs, and every shadow cast by the lighthouse's beam tells a story of realms beyond comprehension.