The Lantern’s Keeper

The lighthouse leaned into the wind, its white paint flaking like old skin. Sam climbed the spiral stairs, a jug of oil sloshing in his grip, the echo of his boots sharp against the damp walls. Lucas trailed behind, a kerosene lamp swinging from his hand, its light dancing across the rust-streaked iron. The air smelled of salt and decay, a stubborn scent baked into this outpost on the edge of nowhere.

“Running low,” Sam said, tipping the jug into the lantern’s reservoir at the top. Oil glugged out, dark and slow.

Lucas set his lamp on the ledge, peering at the gauge. “Enough for tonight.”

They’d been tending the place for months, ever since Sam’s dad died and left him the keys. Lucas had shown up the next morning, duffel slung over his shoulder, no explanation—just a nod and a decision to stay. Now, at twenty-six and twenty-seven, they were keepers of a light nobody else cared to claim.

Sam struck a match, the hiss loud in the tight space. He lit the wick, and the lantern flared, throwing a beam into the fog beyond the glass. Lucas leaned against the railing, watching it carve through the dark. Words were spare up here. They didn’t need many.

“Storm’s coming,” Lucas said, squinting at the horizon. “Feel it in the air.”

“Always does,” Sam replied, wiping his hands on his jeans. He dropped onto the stool by the controls—his dad’s old perch—while Lucas stayed upright, arms crossed, a quiet shadow.

They’d been friends since they were kids, fishing off the pier with Sam’s dad, splitting sandwiches from Lucas’s mom. Life had yanked them apart for a stretch—Sam to a warehouse, Lucas to odd jobs up the coast—but the lighthouse stitched them back together. Sam couldn’t face it alone, and Lucas wouldn’t let him try.

“Ever think of bailing?” Sam asked, voice barely above the lantern’s hum.

Lucas snorted. “To where?”

“Somewhere that doesn’t smell like wet metal.” Sam rubbed his neck, staring at the flame. “This gig’s a grind.”

“You’re here,” Lucas said, shrugging. “So I am.”

Sam’s lips twitched—not a full smile, but close. He let it drop. Lucas didn’t waste breath on grand speeches, but he’d stuck around—hauled oil, patched leaks, weathered storms. That was enough.

The fog thickened, swallowing the beam until it was a faint thread. Sam dug a thermos from his bag, pouring coffee into two chipped mugs. He slid one to Lucas, who took it with a grunt. They drank in silence, the warmth cutting through the chill, until Lucas reached into his jacket and pulled out a small, weathered book—dog-eared, spine cracked.

“Got something,” he said, flipping it open.

Sam raised an eyebrow. “Go on.”

Lucas cleared his throat, voice rough but steady. “‘Two are better than one, because they have a good return for their labor. If either falls down, one can help the other up.’” He paused, glancing at Sam. “Ecclesiastes. Figured it fits.”

Sam leaned back, mug cradled in his hands. “You’re getting soft.”

“Says you.” Lucas smirked, but he kept reading, voice low against the wind. “‘Pity anyone who falls and has no one to help them up.’” He closed the book, tucking it away. “Dad used to read that one. Stuck with me.”

Sam nodded, slow. “Mine said the light was a promise—keep it going, someone makes it home.”

“Same deal, maybe,” Lucas said, sipping his coffee.

“Maybe.” Sam stared at the lantern, its glow steady despite the gusts rattling the glass. “Feels like shouting into nothing some nights.”

Lucas set his mug down, stepping to the lantern to tweak the wick. The flame surged, pushing back the dark a fraction more. “Someone’s out there. They’ll see it.”

Sam watched him work—sure, unhurried. Lucas had been there since day one, no hesitation, like the lighthouse was his burden too. Sam hadn’t asked him to stay past that first night. He just did.

The storm hit an hour later, wind howling through the cracks. The lantern flickered, and they moved in tandem—Sam wiping the lens with a rag, Lucas checking the fuel line. When it steadied, they sank back, Sam unrolling a sleeping bag by the wall, Lucas grabbing his from the corner.

“Read me something else,” Sam said, settling in. “Keeps the noise out.”

Lucas arched a brow but fished the book out again, flipping pages by the lantern’s light. “‘Carry each other’s burdens,’” he started, voice softening, “‘and in this way you will fulfill the law of Christ.’ Galatians. Short one.”

Sam closed his eyes, the words settling over him like the warmth of the coffee. “Fits too.”

“Thought so.” Lucas shut the book, stretching out on his own bag. “Wake me if it quits.”

“Always do,” Sam murmured.

The lantern hummed, a faint pulse in the dark. Sam drifted, the storm’s roar dulled by Lucas’s voice still echoing in his head. He thought of his dad, the light, the way Lucas had woven himself into both without a fuss. Not brothers by blood, but by something tougher—something that held.

“Worth it?” Lucas asked, half-asleep across the room.

“Yeah,” Sam said, not opening his eyes. “You?”

“Yep.” Lucas shifted, the rustle of his bag fading. “Night.”

“Night.”

The wind screamed, but the light burned on. They slept, two keepers bound by a tower and a quiet pact, reading each other through the dark.