In Her Shadow

The storm was eternal. Waves pounded the rock with the fury of a world trying to swallow itself, and the wind howled like a wounded animal circling the tower, tearing at the glass and rattling the metal doors. But inside the lighthouse, the darkness was worse. It pooled in the corners, untouched by the sweeping beam of the lantern. And she was always there, waiting within it.
I started hearing water droplets my first month in, but thought it was just the sea. But by the second month I saw her. I was making some repairs in the lantern room and had the light off for just a moment, she was there, in the darkness of the farthest corner. I froze and dropped my wrench, my heart hammering in my chest. When I turned the lamp back on she was gone.
“Who are you?” I asked. She didn’t respond. Didn’t blink. She didn’t even breathe. The lantern beam passed again, and I was alone—except I wasn’t. I could feel her presence in every shadow that draped over my soul.
She was always there, no matter the time of day. I tested it, standing in the kitchen at noon when the sun broke briefly through the storm. In the corners of the room where the light didn’t touch I saw her, wet and naked. Unmoving and staring as though the darkness within her rejected the light. I couldn’t escape her gaze; it clung to me, followed me through every room, through every passing moment.
At first, I was terrified. I avoided her, sticking to the middle of the rooms, surrounding myself with candles or lanterns pretending not to feel her watching me. But over time, the fear gave way to something else—something I couldn’t name, something I didn’t want to admit. The loneliness of the lighthouse was unbearable, and she was always there, unflinching and constant. She didn’t speak, but her silence felt like understanding. She didn’t move, but her stillness felt like comfort.
I began talking to her, sharing pieces of myself. At first, it was simple: I told her about the weather, about the repairs the tower needed. But soon, I found myself confessing things I’d never told another soul, not even my wife or brother. Regrets. Memories. Dreams. She never answered, but her presence never wavered. I began to crave it.
The light became a nuisance. Each time the lantern passed, it pulled her away from me, even if just for a moment, tearing her from the darkness that was her home. When the beam swept through the room, it was like losing her, even though I knew she was still there, just beyond the reach of the light. I resented the lantern for taking her from me. I resented the storm for making it necessary.
I stopped sleeping, sitting in the corners with her, staring into the void where her face should have been. The storm outside became distant, inconsequential, as though it had been raging in another world. She was all that mattered.
Last night, I made my choice. The lantern turned, its mechanical heart ticking like a countdown. I followed its beam to the top of the tower and stared at the light, so bright and blinding it felt like an offense. I picked up my hammer and smashed the glass, silencing its rhythm forever.
The darkness rushed in, wrapping itself around me and the entire ocean. And there she was, no longer confined to the corners but filling the room, enveloping me. She didn’t move, didn’t blink, but she was mine, and I was hers.
The storm still rages, but I can no longer hear it. There is only her now. Only the darkness of the sea.