The lighthouse keeper had not spoken to another soul in eleven years. The islanders believed grief had stolen his voice. In truth, he had made a bargain. Eleven years earlier, during the worst storm the coast had ever seen, something had climbed from the sea. It wore the shape of a woman, though seawater poured constantly from its eyes. “Keep the lamp burning,” it told him, “and the town will remain safe.” Then it took his voice as payment. Every night since, the keeper had climbed the tower and lit the old lamp, even after officials installed an automatic replacement. The townspeople mocked him. They called him stubborn, mad and wasteful. Then the council sold the lighthouse. The buyer was a property developer named Clara Bell, who planned to turn it into holiday accommodation. She arrived carrying blueprints and a determination to remove everything “unnecessary,” including the old lamp. Unable to warn her, the keeper blocked the stairs. She pushed past him. The instant Clara extinguished the flame, the sea withdrew from the shore. Fish thrashed on exposed sand. Boats tipped sideways. Far beyond the harbour, something enormous rose in the darkness. The keeper seized a match. The lamp flared back to life. The sea creature sank, and the water rushed quietly home. For the first time in eleven years, the keeper spoke. “Never turn it off.” Clara stared at the black shape fading beneath the waves. The renovation plans changed that evening. The lighthouse would remain occupied, and someone would tend the lamp at all times. The council offered Clara a refund. She signed the lease anyway, certain the rent would somehow pay itself.