"Well, it works. But you're going to need a better callsign than 'The Beacon' if you want to be part of the network." There's a smile in her voice. "Something people can remember. Something that means something."
Ruby looks at me, eyebrow raised in question. I think about what this tower represents—not just a navigation point, but a promise. That even in the dark, even in the worst storms, there's light. There's help.
"Hope Tower," I say. "Call it Hope Tower."
"Hope Tower," Ruby repeats into the radio. "How's that?"
"Perfect," Goldfinch responds. "Welcome to the network, Hope Tower. Glad to have you."
After Ruby signs off, she turns to me. "Hope Tower. I like it."
"Seemed appropriate."
"It is." She leans against me, and we watch the beacon rotate. "We built something good here."
I built this cabin to hide. Now I've built a lighthouse to be found.
The volunteers leave the next morning, effusive in their thanks, promising to spread word about what we've built. After they're gone, the cabin feels quiet again, but not empty. Just... ours.
Ruby and I fall back into our rhythm of working the land, maintaining the property, existing in the comfortable silence we've developed. But now there's the beacon, rotating steadily through the nights, and the radio crackling with check-ins from settlements.
Four days after we light the beacon, someone uses it.
I'm outside chopping firewood when I hear the shout. A man, exhausted, half-frozen, stumbling into the clearing. He's carrying a child wrapped in every layer of clothing they could manage, and his eyes are desperate.
"The light," he gasps. "We saw the light. Please, my daughter—"
Ruby's already moving, taking the child, assessing. "Inside. Both of you. Now."
We get them warm, fed, treated for exposure. The girl—maybe seven—recovers quickly once she's warm. Her father tells us between sips of hot soup that they've been walking for two days, got turned around in a storm, thought they were going to die.
"Then we saw the beacon," he says. "Like a miracle. Just kept walking toward the light."
After they've rested, we give them supplies and clear directions to Old Pines. We watch them leave, following the path we've marked, heading toward safety.
"We did that," Ruby says softly. "We saved them."
"The beacon saved them."
"You built the beacon."
"We built the beacon."
She looks at me, and something in her face makes my chest tight—the way her eyes shine, the slight curve of her smile, the way she's looking at me like I just gave her something precious.
"You're not hiding anymore."
"No," I agree. "I'm not."
That night, lying in bed with Ruby curled against me, I can see the beacon's light sweeping past our window. Steady, regular, reliable. Once upon a time, the thought of advertising my location would have sent me into panic. Now it just feels right.
I built this place as a fortress. Ruby helped me turn it into a home. And now we've made it a beacon—not just for lost travelers, but for something bigger. Proof that even after everything, people still build things. Still help each other. Still choose hope over fear.
"Thank you," I say into the darkness.
"For what?"
"For making me remember that surviving isn't enough. That living matters more."
