The Last Light

Every evening at exactly 7:43, the lighthouse keeper climbed the spiral staircase with a thermos of tea and yesterday's newspaper. The lighthouse had been automated for fifteen years, but Mira climbed anyway.

Tonight, a small boat appeared on the horizon, struggling against the wind. Mira watched through the glass as it dipped and rose with each wave. The automated beam swept past it, indifferent and precise.

She picked up the old manual override—a heavy brass switch that hadn't been touched in years—and turned it. The light steadied, holding on the little boat. For ten minutes, she kept it there, a bright finger pointing the way to shore.

When the boat finally made it to the harbor, Mira switched the light back to automatic and descended the stairs. At the bottom, she found a note that hadn't been there before: "Some things still need a human touch."

She smiled, folded the note into her pocket, and headed home through the dark.