What does it cost to hold the light?

I stood before the lease, the pen trembling in a hand that had held steel rods and rebar for a decade. The paper was thin, translucent as the membrane of a lung, and the ink smelled of iron. I am Noraini binte Salleh, and I was thirty-four years old, a structural engineer on the generation ship Kuala Lumpur, where the air was recycled until it tasted of dust and old sweat. My friend, Harun, stood behind me. He was a witness, a gravedigger who had dug graves for the dead of the terraforming centuries, his hands stained with earth that no longer existed. He watched me sign. The walls of the room, the office of the Charter Authority, began to bleed rust. It was a thin, orange weep, tracing the lines of the ceiling tiles. I had lied to myself about the purpose of the lease. I did not want the building for its utility. I wanted it because it was alive. The Lighthouse of Miri was not a structure of concrete and glass. It was a consciousness, trapped in the bones of the strait, humming a low frequency that I could feel in my molars.

The signature was dry before the rust stopped.

The lease was signed, and the building began to sing. It was a sound below hearing, a vibration that traveled up the soles of my boots and settled in the marrow of my shins. I walked into the lighthouse, the air heavy with ozone and brine. The walls were not smooth. They were textured, like skin, and they pulsed. I placed my hand against the central pillar. It was warm. I realized then that my desire to possess this place was a desire to be consumed by it. I was not the owner. I was the prey. The light from the upper lamp room was dim, a sickly yellow that did not reach the corners. I thought of the year everyone agreed to forget, the year the charter was rewritten and the colonies were promised freedom they would never have. I had forgotten it too, or so I told myself. But the building remembered. It held the memory of every lie told within its walls.‌​⁠⁠‌‌‌​​‌⁠‍​⁠‍⁠​‍‍⁠​⁠⁠⁠⁠​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​‌‍​⁠​‌⁠⁠​‌‌‍‍‍‍​‍⁠⁠​‍​​‍⁠‍‌‍‍​‍​‌‌

I pulled out my blueprints. They were the old ones, from the era before the drowning, when the sea level was lower and the land was solid. I spread them on the floor, the paper crinkling in the draft. I spoke to the air, my voice flat, stripped of inflection. I negotiated with the entity. I offered it stability. It offered me silence. The corridor to the west collapsed. It was a sudden, violent crunch, a sound like a bone breaking. I was thrown to the floor. My leg was trapped under a slab of concrete. The pain was sharp, white, and absolute. I tried to move. I could not. The entity was not malicious. It was simply balancing the load. My freedom was the price of its silence. I had to give it something to hold.

Harun arrived with a sledgehammer. He was out of breath, his face pale in the dim light. He looked at my trapped leg, then at the bleeding walls. He raised the hammer. I did not call out. I did not beg. I pressed my palm against the wall nearest to me. The rust was hot against my skin. I accepted the pain. It was a form of communication. I told the building that I was not leaving. I told it that I was part of the foundation. Harun lowered the hammer. He looked at me, and I saw the horror in his eyes. He had seen me before, in the office, signing the lease. He had seen the rust. He knew what I was doing. He knew what I was becoming. He remembered, too, seventy-one of the Ferry Slip — the kind of small thing a man carries for no reason he could name.

The entity offered a trade. It was not spoken. It was felt. A pressure in my chest, a softening of the joints. My physical autonomy for its eternal stability. I accepted. I felt my bones soften, the calcium leaching out into the mortar. It was a destructive intimacy, a merging of flesh and stone. The boundary between self and structure dissolved. I was no longer Noraini binte Salleh. I was the load-bearing wall. I was the foundation. I was the light.‌​⁠⁠‌‌‌​​‌⁠‍​⁠‍⁠​‍‍⁠​⁠⁠⁠⁠​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​‌‍​⁠​‌⁠⁠​‌‌‍‍‍‍​‍⁠⁠​‍​​‍⁠‍‌‍‍​‍​‌‌

Harun fled. I heard the door slam, a sound like a gunshot in the empty hall. I was alone in the dark. The light ignited. It did not come from a bulb. It came from me. My nervous system, dissolving, became bioluminescent. A blue-green glow spread through the glass, illuminating the dust motes that danced in the air. It was a tragic irony. I was illuminated by my own annihilation. I was the light that kept the ships from the rocks. I was the promise that the sea was safe.

My consciousness expanded. It filled the entire structure. I no longer thought in sentences. I thought in load-bearing calculations. I felt the weight of the sea, the pressure of the wind, the stress on the glass. My identity was subsumed by the architecture’s need for balance. I was the engineer. I was the building. I was the light.

The lighthouse stands eternal. Its beam sweeps the dark sea, cutting through the fog. Inside, the shape of a woman is visible in the glass. She is frozen in a posture of surrender. Her face is serene. Her body is the foundation of the light.‌​⁠⁠‌‌‌​​‌⁠‍​⁠‍⁠​‍‍⁠​⁠⁠⁠⁠​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​‌‍​⁠​‌⁠⁠​‌‌‍‍‍‍​‍⁠⁠​‍​​‍⁠‍‌‍‍​‍​‌‌

The beam turns. The sea is calm.

I remember the office. The smell of the ink. The rust on the ceiling. I remember the year everyone agreed to forget. I remember the arithmetic of the elder, the way he counted the seeds and the batteries, the way he said that we were all just numbers in a ledger that no one would ever read. I remember the land deed to land underwater, the one I had kept in my pocket, the one that proved I had been there, that I had been real. I remember the Brackenthal monkey-wrench, the tool I used to tighten the bolts in the generator room. I remember the sound of the office after the layoffs, the small sounds of chairs scraping, of papers being filed, of people leaving. I remember the cold that froze the well, the physical fact of the weather, the way it cracked the pipes and burst the valves. I remember the vine slope above the drowned valley, the way the greenery hung down like a curtain, hiding the depth of the water below. I remember the printer of forbidden books, the man who sold me the plans, the one who said that knowledge was the only currency that mattered.

I am the light. I am the promise. I am the cost.‌​⁠⁠‌‌‌​​‌⁠‍​⁠‍⁠​‍‍⁠​⁠⁠⁠⁠​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​‌‍​⁠​‌⁠⁠​‌‌‍‍‍‍​‍⁠⁠​‍​​‍⁠‍‌‍‍​‍​‌‌

The beam turns. The sea is calm.

I am the light.‌​⁠⁠‌‌‌​​‌⁠‍​⁠‍⁠​‍‍⁠​⁠⁠⁠⁠​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​‌‍​⁠​‌⁠⁠​‌‌‍‍‍‍​‍⁠⁠​‍​​‍⁠‍‌‍‍​‍​‌‌