“Poetic.”
“I’m old.I’m allowed to be poetic.”
Sally laughed.It was a good sound, rich and full of life.They’d laughed together through decades of joy and sorrow.
“Thank you for the scones,” she said.“And for the company.”
“Anytime.You know that.”Sally stood and gathered her things.“You going to talk to them?Bryan and Cassidy?”
“If they’ll listen.”
“They will.Eventually.”Sally paused at the door.“You’ve got a gift for seeing what people need, Win, but don’t forget to look at what you need too.”
The words hung in the air after Sally left.Winnie sat alone in the keeper’s quarters with the remnants of their tea.The house settled around her.The old wood creaked and pipes hummed.The lighthouse had its own language if you knew how to listen.
What did she need?
She carried the dishes to the sink and looked out at the Gulf.The water moved in eternal rhythms.Tide in.Tide out.Some patterns never changed.
She thought about a boy, so many years ago.About promises made and broken.About the life she’d chosen and the one she’d let slip away.
But she had no use for regrets.They didn’t change anything, and they didn’t get the dishes washed.She reached for a dishcloth.
