Short Story
The Lighthouse Keeper’s Star
The island was a jagged fist of rock punching up from the sea, and Horace liked it that way. No neighbors knocking, no children shrieking, no one to complain about the foghorn’s midnight groans. Just him, his lighthouse, and the endless grumble of waves. On the stormiest night of the year, Horace climbed the spiral stairs to tend the lantern. Wind screamed through cracks in the tower, and rain lashed the windows like thrown gravel. That’s when he heard it—a small, desperate *tap-tap-tapping*. “Blasted seagulls,” he muttered, swinging open the lantern room door. But it wasn’t a seagull. A starling lay trembling on the iron grate, one wing bent at a cruel angle. Its feathers were rain-slicked black, speckled with starlight-white dots. Horace scowled. “You’ll ruin my lamps, you will.” The bird blinked up at him, its chest heaving. --- For three days, Horace argued with himself. “Stupid creature,” he’d grumble, tossing crumbs from his toast. “Waste of good marmalade.” But he’d also fashioned a nest from his least-scratchy scarf and named the bird “Twinkle” (though he’d never admit it aloud). Twinkle’s recovery was slow. Horace learned to crush worms into paste, to hum sea shanties while cleaning the lens, and—most surprisingly—to laugh. The starling had a talent for mischief, stealing his spectacles and hiding them in the salt-crusted rafters. “You’re a rotten thief,” Horace chuckled one morning as Twinkle hopped onto his shoulder, trilling a melody that sounded like sunrise. --- Autumn arrived, sharp and gold. Twinkle’s wing healed, but she now perched for hours at the lantern room window, watching flocks swirl southward like smoke. “Go on, then,” Horace finally said, voice gruff. He opened the pane. “You’re meant for skies, not stuffy towers.” Twinkle cocked her head, then nipped his earlobe—a gesture that might’ve meant *thank you* or *goodbye*. With a flutter, she vanished into the clouds. Horace told himself he preferred the quiet. --- Years passed. Every winter, as frost etched the lighthouse windows, a miracle happened. A flock of starlings would descend, swirling around the tower in ever-shifting constellations. They’d cling to the weathervane, peck at the lantern glass, and fill the salty air with songs that sounded suspiciously like sea shanties. Village fishermen swore the old keeper now smiled as he lit the lamp each dusk, his face glowing in the birds’ iridescent dance. “Looks like he’s got himself a sky full of friends,” they’d say. And if you listened closely on still nights, you might hear two voices harmonizing with the wind—one gravelly and deep, the other bright as a bell—singing the lonely sea back to sleep.
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By Md Nusaib Ul Islam2 years ago in Fiction
