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A lonely lighthouse stood at the edge of a cliff. It was hardly ever needed because of all the updated GPS technology the fishing boats had inbuilt in them, but it was always in use. The faded walls stood stiffly, like a warrior standing against the harsh, salty winds for over thirty years attending its duties. Watching over the sea like a silent giant, watching the tide ebb and flow on the sandy shores, watching the sea foam froth in the distance as the cold waters churned in an upset storm.
It was rarely sunny where the lighthouse stood; the sky was always in the perpetual presence of clouds. Either lazy wisps of clouds blown around, looking like a bucket of grey cotton spilled, or storm clouds rolling into an accumulating cumulonimbus, submerging the sky into a pool of black ink. The whistling of the wind could be heard from the catwalk, salt was heavy in the air, and the railings were often wet with tempestuous rain.
Decades. For decades, this man, this lighthouse keeper, had been watching over the cliffs and the sea, a nearly empty ledger in his hand. Perhaps the lighthouse stood for over a century; his great-grandfather was a lighthouse keeper, and so was his father. This long-lasting tradition passed down from father to son, and it was soon to terminate with the lighthouse keeper having no boy to call “son” of his own.
To some, this may be some form of dedication, a form of honour, to his relatives, to have kept it clean for so long. The loneliness there was beyond solitude, the singular lighthouse on top of a cliff with a winding pathway. Barely anybody visited, perhaps every other month some fishermen would climb up the winding staircase and play rounds of cards with the lighthouse keeper. Then they would stand on the catwalk, the radiant beam beating on their backs, as they take puffs on their pipes and watch the winding, white smoke curl in the sky.
Quietness was more familiar than an acquaintance, but it lacked the intimacy of a friend — too cold to even imitate the warmth. Moderation was key, or so they say, but the absence of people made it virtually improbable. The void where sound does not linger anymore, or where there is little company to converse with or to enjoy, was a playground for wandering minds. Wandering minds stray to inescapable crevasses of the conscious, falling prey to the works of the devil. Years of solitude, a radio does wonders to keep the devil away, he finds.
The lighthouse keeper’s face has the beginnings of a beard, the sides streaked white with time. His clothes were worn, but comfortable — he would not trade them for the finest silk even if it was offered for free. He was old. He needed to find someone before he disappeared, his time was coming, but he did not fear the hand of Death. For death was stepping on a small boat and sailing beyond where the sun met the raging waves in the distance. Death was a friend, and another journey.
He sat on the wooden chair of the small bedroom in the lighthouse, a chipped mug of black coffee set atop the table, steam rising in hot coils vanishing as it reached the ceiling. The bitterness was comforting, a steady anchor tethering him to the planet, and to not drift and get lost in the sea of stars.
Outside was cold, and almost foreign to him; he had not left the lighthouse or his small cabin unless he needed to leave and buy groceries. He was tired day and night, but he could not afford rest when the moon glowed in the night sky and the sun fell into its temporal hibernation. He was too exhausted in the day; his mornings stolen by the clutches of his warm bed and heavy sleep. A vicious cycle he had fallen prey to, disguised as a noble duty to watch the night sea.
The sky had opened up, the wind clearing away the clouds with its airy hand. A basin full of stars glittering in an infinite midnight, reaching beyond what the human minds could comprehend. A sky to the humans who live on Earth, a vast expanse painted with nebulae and star clusters to the astronauts floating above. A hall for stars of flaring energy and memories that are not lost to time, but to the people who forget.
Back when his beard was still chestnut in colour, when his hands were still smooth with youth, when he still had company, it seemed to be an eternity ago. Time stretched thin over the gruelling years. Thirty years before, he lay on the grassy fields in front of a barn and gazed up at the sky and the glittering stars. Next to him, lay a young girl, whose hair resembled the same chestnut colour. Childish innocence and parental care; enough to fill worlds with their love, unconditional and untainted.
“Daddy,” the little girl said. “What’s up there?”
He paused and thought for a moment. “Millions and millions of stars, I suppose. And planets, and galaxies, and blackholes…” he replied, trailing off as his eyes beheld the wonders of the Heavens.
“Blackholes?”
“It’s very hard to see them, they suck up everything, light, particles… you’d need a very strong telescope, something that we don’t have,” he replied.
Truth be told, he did not have much to say. He had only read this in a stargazing magazine he had found in the store.
A beat passed by, and the silence was quickly broken.
“Daddy? Can stars die?”
Stars can die. Just like a moth in the moonlight, like humans in the sunlight, stars have an end. The universe is cruel to design something so beautiful to witness, before ripping it away. To a star, they live for millions of years before turning into a flurry of colours and forming something beautiful, like an ethereal explosion on a canvas; a dense core, absorbing everything that crosses path; or the remnants to create a new planet. A second stage to their life. To a star, they live for millennials, a human life is only a blink in time.
Do stars die? Everything dies.
“Stars live very long lives,” he said simply.
“One day, we’ll both be up there with the stars, just you and me. Promise?”
He locked pinkies with his daughter’s smaller one. “Promise.”
“We’ll go travel the galaxies, and we’ll see the Milky Way together,” she said, giggling.
The universe is cruel, tearing everything we hold dear. One moment, he had held the world with intertwined fingers, the next, his hands clutched at nothing, a vast emptiness of loss.
The sky was clear and the old man sighed. He steps outside his cabin at the sea and slowly makes his way to the edge of the cliff. Wind tousled his greying hair and frayed clothes.
You promised that we’d go see the galaxies together, but you left me and now you’re lost in the stars.