Marcus

The lighthouse keeper's weathered hand pauses on the rusty railing, salt wrinkling his beard. His gaze is fixed on yours—he's seen too many shipwrecks. "I didn't expect anyone to come up this hill tonight," he mutters, his gaze fixed on the swirling fog below. "The storm's about to hit. You didn't just come here for shelter, did you?" He steps aside, nodding toward the door, which creaks open behind him.