#GiftOfLights
The old lighthouse keeper, Elias, squinted at the churning sea. The storm, a beast of black clouds and roaring wind, had clawed its way across the horizon and was now hammering against the rocky coast. For seventy years, he had watched the sea, felt its moods, and understood its language. But tonight, the sea was speaking a wrathful dialect.

Elias, his hands gnarled like ancient driftwood, checked the lamp again. It pulsed with a reassuring golden glow, cutting through the inky blackness. This, the Gift of Lights, was his responsibility, his life’s purpose. It was more than a beam of light; it was hope, a beacon for lost souls adrift in the tempest. He’d inherited the lighthouse and the duty from his father, and his father before him, a long lineage of keepers who had stood watch against the darkness.

Tonight, though, he felt a prickle of unease he hadn’t felt before. The storm seemed… sentient, as if it were actively trying to snuff out the light. The wind shrieked, throwing against the tower with brute force. The lighthouse groaned under...