The lighthouse keeper had not spoken to another soul in eleven years. He spoke to the radio every night, but the radio did not count. “Wind from the northeast,” he would announce. “Visibility poor. Sea unsettled.” No one answered. The coastguard had abandoned the frequency years ago, yet keeping the ritual gave shape to his evenings. Then, one winter night, a woman’s voice crackled through the static. “Sea unsettled,” she repeated. “That’s one way of putting it.” The keeper froze. Her name was Elsie. She claimed to be aboard a research vessel beyond the headland, though no lights appeared on the water. They talked until sunrise. After that, she called every evening. She described cities she had visited, meals she had ruined and a childhood spent moving between rented flats. He told her about tides, migrating birds and the precise sound a lighthouse made during a storm. Spring arrived. One night, Elsie announced that her ship would dock the following morning. The keeper shaved for the first time in years. He polished the kitchen table and baked bread so dense it could have anchored a boat. No ship came. Instead, a letter arrived from the mainland authorities. The abandoned research station across the bay had been transmitting archived recordings after lightning damaged its equipment. Elsie’s voice belonged to a marine scientist who had died twelve years earlier. The keeper listened to the tapes one final time, then packed a bag. He travelled inland and found Elsie’s daughter, who laughed exactly like her mother. She was converting an old bakery into flats and needed someone who understood repairs. The smallest apartment overlooked the harbor. She signed the lease anyway, certain the rent would somehow pay itself.