It wasn’t healthy, but she couldn’t bring herself to give up what little hope had made it through the war. Her life reduced to pacing stone paths, littered with shards of colored glass worn harmless by the waves.

The colors remind her of summer vines, blooming in draping avalanches over rough-hewn stone parapets. But the vines and stone are long since gone, the lighthouse’s church in shambles at her feet. In her head she knows the ships aren’t coming back, but in her heart lives the hope that drives her forward down ruined paths.

The light must shine.