The light was barely visible, but it was there. At the edge of the storm, beyond the gray walls of rain, something flickered against the horizon. Old Martin wiped the salt from his glasses and leaned closer to the lighthouse window. For years the harbor council had told him the beacon was no longer necessary. Modern ships had satellites and radar now. No one needed a lonely tower with a rotating lamp and a keeper who climbed the same iron stairs every night. But Martin kept the light burning anyway. Habit, mostly. And stubbornness. The sea roared against the rocks below, waves crashing in white explosions that vanished as quickly as they came. Somewhere out there, something answered the storm with its own weak glow. A boat, maybe. Small. Lost. Martin didn’t hesitate. He hurried down the spiral steps, boots echoing on the metal. The generator coughed when he started it, but the old machinery still knew its work. Moments later the great lantern above the tower burst into life. A wide golden beam swept across the dark water again and again, cutting through the rain. Out there, the distant light moved. It turned. Slowly, steadily, it began drifting toward the shore. Martin watched until the storm softened and the little glow disappeared safely into the harbor. Later, exhausted, he lay down on the narrow bed beside the lighthouse window. The beam above him continued its patient rotation across the sea. “I have a feeling that tonight I will dream about the future,” he said while closing his eyes.