Thomas Flett stood at the edge of the cliff, the salt wind whipping through his weathered hair like fingers of the sea itself. Below him, the waves crashed against the jagged rocks with a violence that matched the turmoil in his chest. He had lived on this island for sixty-three years, watching the seasons turn and the tides ebb and flow, yet tonight felt different. The lighthouse beam swept across the dark waters in its eternal dance, a beacon of hope that seemed to mock his despair.

His calloused hands gripped the wooden fence post, knuckles white against the peeling paint. The cottage behind him glowed with warm amber light, and he could hear his daughter's laughter spilling through the open window like liquid gold. She was packing, preparing to leave for the mainland tomorrow. The island that had been his sanctuary would become his prison.

"Da?" Her voice cut through the wind, soft yet insistent. "Come inside. The tea's getting cold."

Thomas closed his eyes, memorising the sound of the waves, the taste of salt on his lips, the feeling of belonging to something ancient and unchanging. When he opened them again, the lighthouse beam had moved on, leaving him in darkness.