The Storm

The storm that came on the twelfth night wasn't the worst she'd seen, but it was close, and it had the bad manners to arrive early, before she'd finished checking the gears. Halfway up the stairs the whole tower seemed to lean, just slightly, the way an old friend leans in to hear you better. Mara didn't slow down. She'd stopped being afraid of the tower's noises around year three; they were just the building talking to the wind, and the wind always lost the argument eventually. At the top, she wiped the glass with her sleeve and watched the light throw its long arm out over black water, over and over, patient as a held breath. Somewhere out there — she never knew exactly where, that was the point — a boat was using this exact beam to decide it wasn't lost after all. Let the letter say automated. Let it. Tonight, this was still a hand doing it.