"Link"

A lighthouse stands alone on the edge of the sea and overlooks a port where no ships visit any longer.

The stars had gone out — one by one. Then the sun dimmed, folding itself gently into the black of nothing, and then the universe grew colder, quieter, and softer.

But the lighthouse stays. Its light sweeps across the frozen, slow waves even though there's no one left to see it and no crafts left to guide.

Inside it lives a keeper. Though they no longer remember their name, every day they go about their deliberative ritual: feeding the lamp, winding the mechanisms that keep time running, checking old dials and levers, and other acts of dedication to the lighthouse itself. This is out of habit more than duty as there is no longer anyone to come and gauge the quality of their work or the intensity of their devotion.

This protocol continued for however long it continued — temporal cohesion had stopped making sense quite some time ago. But one night — as the light passed across the cold, slow sea the same way that it always had — it touched something.

The keeper first noticed it, that particular night when something new finally happened, as the lamp unexpectedly flickered. In the moment of full darkness they saw — far out on the ice and dark water of the undulating sea — a flicker back.

Not a star or a reflection, but a small, pulsing glow. A response.

The keeper stared at the spot they'd witnessed it happen for hours. And when the dawnless morning came once again, the keeper felt it — a faint tug, like a thread brushing against their wrist.

Days passed. Weeks, or perhaps years. It's hard to count, and the count no longer matters anyway.

But each night, as the light transited across the water, the glow always pulsed back in reply.

The keeper began to talk to it. At first with words, startling the cold eternal night with a noise other than rolling waves for the first time in however long. The keeper quickly became uncomfortable with talking to themselves aloud — so they pushed thoughts, shapes, and feelings silently in the dark towards the presence waiting far, far away.

A presence that, inexplicably, was moving closer.

It was not a person or a ship. Not a building, and not an animal. Somehow, the keeper knew that the thing far out on the water was something ancient and waiting. It was a manifestation stretching itself wide, patient and endless, and curious about the lighthouse waiting at the end of the world.

The keeper continued to "talk" with it. Sometimes, they could hear a gentle hum in response — like a name almost remembered.

One night, as the keeper sat in their chair with their hands folded in their lap and eyes closed sleepily, they felt the thread touch them fully. Not just on the wrist, but inside their chest.

Not cold, not cruel. Just there.

"I'm here," the keeper whispered, although they no longer had a voice.

And from the dark, beyond the glass, the presence pulsed back, slow and sure and well-meant.

"Me too."