The storm had grown from a thumping rain to thunder so loud it could crack an eardrum. All doors were sealed shut, and the Sailor worked hard at the fireplace to keep it brimming with heat. The man from the shore savagely scarfed down the fish soup he'd been given, barely taking time to swallow air alongside. When it seemed his primal instincts were settling down, he spoke for the first time all day. The Sailor was fine with him not speaking at all.

     "Thanks," the man said, mouth still full of soup.

     The Sailor grunted. He wondered, of all people in the world, the universe decided to send this wayfaring stranger to his doorstep.

     "I'm Peter, by the way. Friends call me Pete. You can call me whichever, obviously, seeing as you saved me." Peter was a third of the way done with the soup.

     The Sailor didn't respond. Choosing to stay silent in hopes Peter would stop talking. He had no need for friends or casual conversation.

     "So, have you worked at this lighthouse for very long?" The curiosity seemed sincere.

     He nodded, deciding to give Peter a bone for being polite, unlike many other people he's met. When the conversation seemed to dry from Peter's mind, the Sailor sat at his desk, then picked up a piece of paper and began to sketch the woman from his memories. The curves and edges were wobbly, and the Sailor's hands weren't as steady as they were in his youth. The picture became a sad imitation like all the others before and so was crumpled up and thrown into the pile of balled-up parchment.

     "Who was she? The woman in that picture." Peter was now turned sideways in his chair, looking straight at the Sailor.

     The Sailor looked up to realize that Peter had been watching him the whole time. A little privacy would've been nice, but how could the Sailor expect even that on an isolated lighthouse? He decided it wouldn't make sense to get angry.

     "I studied in art school, believe it or not. I was on a trip to take in the sights and find inspiration, or whatever uppity stuff they say." Peter leaned forward, creaking the chair, "She's pretty. Like a model."

     The Sailor smirked at that and nodded accordingly. Peter seemed to have taken that as a sign of progress and decided to speak again.

     "You never told me your name."

     "I didn't," The Sailor said stoically.

     "Will you tell me?"

     "No."

     "Right. Isolated on a lighthouse with a man who won't tell me anything about him. That's not creepy in the slightest."

     The Sailor didn't care if it was, especially since he got his wish. The rest of the night was silent. Then they both went to bed.

     November 7th, 1930

     The next morning gave way to a feral storm. The clouds were ash gray, and the water even darker, lapped at the beach like a hound biting at its prey. Rain skidded against the window of the Sailor's bedroom, followed by a howl of thunder.

     The Sailor awoke, eyes and mouth crusted, to find a piece of parchment on the chipped nightstand next to his cotton bed. It was held down by a tackle box, obviously left by someone. The Sailor never brought fishing supplies into his room. He broke out of his morning weariness and examined the paper. It was unlike anything he'd seen; a perfect recreation of the woman he'd been trying to draw for the past seven years. His crusted lips quivered, and his jaw clenched. He plunged to his feet and stomped out of his room to find Peter drawing at the dining table.

     Peter didn't notice the Sailor's angry demeanor, staring down at his picture. "Good morning. I hope you liked that drawing. I thought I'd give it a go, capture the beauty. I think it turned out really well, don't you think?" Peter looked up, grinning friendly, then scowled, confused when he saw the Sailor's red face. "Is there a problem?"

The Sailor crumpled up the drawing and threw it to the floor to make a point. He rubbed his eyes, hating what he did. He refused to admit the picture's superiority. Silence filled the room until the Sailor was calmed enough to speak. "I give you a room, and that's that. I did not ask you to be friendly, and I sure as hell didn't ask you to do what you did. Draw a fish or the water, but not her. Understood?"

     Peter nodded guiltily and crumpled up his own piece of paper. The Sailor's nerves calmed, but his conscience didn't. He walked out the door with more composure and chopped wood in the pouring rain. Each log ripped in half from his axe. The rain had quickly drenched his clothes, but he didn't care. The thought of failing at every drawing, only to have her perfectly encapsulated by a stranger, someone who didn't even know her. It made him grip the handle even tighter. Then, he saw a vision. The woman stepped through the veil of rain clad in a pure, sparkling white garment. Her face was as pure as the day he lost her. The Sailor dropped the axe, his mouth agape, and fell to his knees. The mud caked onto his legs. The woman didn't speak. She bent over and kissed the Sailor on his forehead. A tear fell from her ceramic white face.

     The Sailor fell forward to kiss her feet, but she was gone. Even without speaking, he understood what she was saying. To leave the world as a bitter man was not what she'd want. He made up his mind, rising from the mud. His hands were blistered, and his face was covered in mud. He cleaned up and went to bed.

     November 8th, 1930

     The seagulls squeaked as they returned to the island, surprisingly. The storm had passed, leaving room for the sound of a horn to ring out. A ship had come and made its way to the shore, a product of the Sailor keeping the lighthouse on. The captain aboard the ship walked down, discussed Peter's situation, and agreed to take the young man back home with him. The Sailor was outside, keeping the captain company from the shore, while Peter rushed outside. He shook the captain's hand vigorously and thanked him all the same. Then, he turned to the Sailor. He hesitated to offer his hand, probably from the day before, the Sailor deduced, so he offered his own hand instead.

     Peter took it, and the two shook solemnly. Peter gave a tight-lipped grin and walked back to the boat, and before he could make it halfway up the ramp, the Sailor spoke.

     "It's Daniel."

     Peter turned around, confused, then realizing, turned back, and smiled on his way up the ramp. The boat sounded off its horn again and pulled out onto the open waters. The one person he'd seen in years was gone. Suddenly, the realization of how alone he was had grown. In a moment of clarity, he jumped up and down, waving to the ship to come back, but it was too late. The boat was far away, and so was any hope for civilization. He gave up the call, slumped his arms to the side, and went inside.

     Daniel waited out the day, then gathered all the whittled animals and candles and went outside. The island was cold. Not freezing, but like that soft cold like a blanket that just barely makes your hairs stand up. A comfortable cold. Daniel loved that weather the best. It was perfect. The sea was calm, too, although the waves were not completely calm.

     There was a rusted piece of an old ship down the shoreline buried in the sand. Daniel sat down, placed the candles and sculptures all around the sheet of metal, then reached into his pocket and took out a crumpled piece of paper. He uncrumpled it, the perfect portrait drawn by the young man, and placed it at the centerpiece of the makeshift shrine.

     Daniel blew nervous air out of his mouth. "It's our anniversary, so I thought you'd like something special." He stared at the woman's eyes and the strand of hair that perfectly displayed the beauty of her united features. He went to speak, but the thought of her passing and the memories of her soft kisses, the bells that chimed after their first one, and the plans of children and a home in the city flooded his mind. He cried and wailed louder than anyone does except on a lonely island. He was glad that Peter had left before he could see him like this.

     "I miss you, Jane." Daniel got up and walked towards the shore. He let the water rise, inching farther up his body as he walked. Then, as his head was the only thing not submerged, a dash of lightning danced across the cream gray, and he succumbed to the tides as the thunder struck.