Beacon

It wasn't a legend or myth as much as it was accepted.

Out there, beyond the breakers, stood the old light house - a testament of time. It had lived through the crashing surf, howling winds, and nor'easters. It had seen the splitting of the nation, the freeing of the slaves, and the dawn of electricity.

Yet, everyday, its light still shown, bright amongst the lingering sea haze, thundering rains, or snow fall. No one wanted to actually believe it, but deep down, everyone did. The keeper was still there, after all those years - long beyond an age that anyone could live. No one could remember the last time the walkway to the lighthouse had existed, before the waves beat it into smooth shale. The seas were always too rough to maneuver out there, to explore the building standing tall upon its ever slendering base.

There had been those who swore they could see him. Late at night, when the light was spinning slowly around, at just the right time, his outline would appear. Standing against the railing, looking for ships that may wander too close to the shore. He was a myth and a legend. A man who was well over a hundred years of age, with gnarled fingers, salted skin, and thick, powdered white hair. He had to have been lonely. There were stories about how long it had been since his wife had passed. Some said he buried her in the sea at the base of the lighthouse, to be with him forever as he stood watch, protecting those at sea and the coast.

In the darkest of nights, the strongest of winds, giant swells, and swirling storms, the light always shown, never burning out.

A beacon to those coming a shore.