The Last Light at Point Reilly
The lighthouse hadn't needed a keeper since 1896. The lamp was electric now. It turned itself on at dusk, turned itself off at dawn. But Elias Reilly still climbed the one hundred and forty-two steps every evening, still checked the Fresnel lens, still logged the weather in a book that nobody would read. Sixty-eight years old. Four years widowed. Two years redundant. Clara was buried on the...
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