The lighthouse keeper had not spoken to another soul in eleven years. This was partly because no one visited the island and partly because the dead rarely required conversation. They arrived after storms. Some appeared soaked and confused at the lighthouse door. Others stood silently among the rocks, watching for ships that had sunk decades before. The keeper gave each ghost a room. By morning, they were gone. He never asked where. One October evening, a living woman arrived in a red sailing boat. Her name was June, and she was searching for her missing brother. His boat had vanished near the island three months earlier. The keeper knew the young man. He had spent one night in the east bedroom before disappearing at dawn. Unable to explain, the keeper led June upstairs. Her brother’s wet jacket still hung behind the door. That night, June remained awake beside it. Shortly before sunrise, her brother appeared. He apologised for leaving. He told her the storm had been sudden and that there had been no pain. Most importantly, he told her to stop blaming herself for refusing to join the voyage. June wept. Then he was gone. The keeper expected her to leave immediately, as every living visitor eventually did. Instead, she stayed for breakfast. The island’s lighthouse service had recently advertised for a new caretaker. June had seen the notice but dismissed it as impractical. Now she understood that someone needed to welcome those who washed ashore between worlds. The cottage was freezing, the plumbing complained loudly, and the nearest supermarket required a two-hour boat trip. She signed the lease anyway, certain the rent would somehow pay itself.