WEBVTT

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The wind didn't just blow across the headland.

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It screamed. carrying the bitter. salt -laden chill

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of a stormy spring morning.

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Perched on the jagged precipice. the old stone

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tower stood like an unyielding sentinel against the

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fury of the Atlantic.

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Its ancient. weathered walls. bearing a rich. detailed

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stone texture carved by decades of gales.

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shivered slightly under the onslaught. yet held their

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ground.

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Above them. the towering white beacon rose proudly.

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Its glass dome still throwing a pale. steadfast

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beam against the encroaching slate -gray sky.

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Inside. Old Miller adjusted the brass fittings of

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the light.

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his knuckles scarred and familiar with the rhythmic

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groan of the machinery.

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Down below. thousands of tons of emerald and

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white water surged with violent grace.

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waves crashing against the jagged cliffs in a

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deafening roar that vibrated right through the

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bedrock. It was a brutal dawn. painted in

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sickly shades of bruised purple and watery gold.

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casting a pale dawn illumination over a coastline

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that offered no mercy to the unwary traveler.

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Yet. as the last squall broke against the

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glass and rolled harmlessly out to sea.

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the light completed another unbroken rotation. Out on

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the horizon.

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hidden somewhere beyond the churning foam. a lone

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fishing catch righted itself and turned toward the

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harbor. Miller watched it steady its course. guided

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by the enduring white flash cutting through the