Page 11 of Past Lives
Inside, the café is cheerful: blue walls, mismatched chairs, and cakes under glass. Maya orders a flat white, trying out her accent. I ask for black coffee and get a pitying smile.
We find a seat near the window. Her scarf is almost the color of blood now, the dye leaching in the damp. Our knees touch under the table, and for a second, she lets them.
“So,” she says, “what’s the plan, Heath?”
I almost admit to her that I haven’t thought past the next hour, but want to appear in control. “We walk,” I say, “and then we see what the hell is so special about this lighthouse. You write your piece, I get my promo pictures, we invent a spiritual connection with the land, and then I take you to a real dinner in Edinburgh.”
She laughs, not quite genuine. “Smooth.”
The coffees arrive. Hers is dusted with cocoa, mine is so strong it makes my teeth ache. I glance at a poster taped to the wall above us: a faded photograph of the lighthouse, beneath which reads: The Last Beacon, since 1803.
"First visit?" I ask.
She shakes her head. “Yes, but I know the story. Sort of.” She glances up at the poster, then back at me, geranium-blue eyes suddenly serious. “You do know it’s haunted, right?”
“Of course,” I say. “They all are.”
But she’s not joking. She leans in, hands curved protectively around her mug. “The last keeper was a girl—Moira Blythe. She lived alone in the cottage her whole life, keeping the light every night until she died. They say she still keeps it. There are people who swear they’ve seen her, even now, walking the catwalk upstairs. Sometimes she’s got a lamp, other times she’s just standing, looking out at the sea like she’s waiting for something.”
“Someone, you mean.”
“Someone,” Maya echoes. “But no one ever says the name.”
Something inside me prickles. I glance at the clock over the register, half expecting the hands to be stuck, some perfunctory bit of folklore. But they’re moving, lazy, and indifferent. I flex my jaw and swallow the rest of my coffee, which tastes like the last rites.
"Go?" Maya asks, seeing my unease.
Outside, the air is raw, thick with ocean. The main road soon narrows to a wind-eaten path, Galloway shrinking behind us. Lichen covers every surface; the stone fences are uneven and moss-covered. My mood matches the spare landscape.
We walk in silence, the village replaced by the sea’s drone and our boots on gravel. Maya watches the horizon with reverence. The lighthouse grows closer: white and black, crowned with shattered glass.
As we reach the last rise, a squall blows in with sideways rain, bone-cold and immediate. She yelps half-heartedly, and before I can stop myself, I take off my coat and throw it over her shoulders, ignoring her protest. The air between us feels charged. She stares at me as if I’ve just changed something important between us. For a long minute, we just stand there, teeth chattering, squinting into the wind.
“You ever get the feeling you’re not supposed to be somewhere?” she says at last.
“All the time,” I say, truthfully.
She smiles, but she looks afraid.
The last hundred yards are open to wind and sky. The path turns sandy and kelp-streaked, and outbuildings crouch around the tower. An iron gate blocks the entrance, latched but not locked.
I gesture at the sign that reads PRIVATE PROPERTY, NO TRESPASSING and raise an eyebrow. “Felony selfie?”
She squares her shoulders and ducks under the bar. “Wouldn’t be the first.”
I follow, nerves buzzing. Inside, the wind quiets. Maya trails her fingers over the wall. The tower door swings open ahead, creaking in the wind.
We step in. The air is warmer, filled with smoke and mold, but not unpleasant. Spiral stairs climb the wall, and a woodenbench sits under a faded placard: Keep Watch. Every Visitor Counts.
“Would you mind?” Maya says.
I sit next to her, the bench creaking under my weight. Our thighs touch, more intentional this time.
She stares up at the spiraling dark. “I met a man who worked as a keeper in Nova Scotia. Different world, but same idea. He told me the tower was alive. That if you listened hard enough, you’d know what it wanted from you.”
“What does this one want?” I ask.
She shrugs. “Maybe just company. Or forgiveness.”
