Not the main lighthouse beam, which had been automated years ago and ran on a timer. This was smaller, coming from above. From the tower.
Jack climbed the spiral stairs, each step creaking under his weight. The sound should've announced his presence, but when he reached the top, Clara didn't turn around.
She sat on the narrow bench that circled the lamp room, knees pulled to her chest, watching the storm through the curved glass. Lightning illuminated her profile in stark flashes—her wild red hair loose around her shoulders, her face tilted up like she was studying the sky for answers.
She looked different like this. Smaller. Like someone who also couldn't sleep and wasn't going to pretend otherwise.
"Can't sleep?" he asked.
Clara didn't startle. Just glanced over, unsurprised. "Storms wake me up. Always have."
"I used to be able to sleep right through them," he admitted, watching as the night sky lit up with a zag of electricity. "But now…not so much."
He wasn't about to spell out why. She coulddo the math.
"Mind if I join you for a few minutes?" he asked.
"Be my guest." She returned to watching the sky, giving him permission to sit beside her without making it weird.
The bench was cold, the glass fogged with condensation. Outside, the Atlantic churned black and furious, waves crashing against the rocks with enough force to send spray halfway up the lighthouse.
"My grandfather taught me to count," Clara said suddenly. "Between the lightning and the thunder. You can tell how far away the storm is. Five seconds equals one mile."
Lightning split the sky. Clara started counting under her breath.
"One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi?—"
Thunder cracked like the world splitting open.
"Three miles out," she said. "Getting closer."
They sat in silence, watching nature throw its tantrum. Jack tried to focus on the present—the cold bench, the sound of rain, Clara's quiet breathing beside him. Not another storm. Not seven years ago. Not Joel's car on a wet highway in the dark.
Lightning again. Closer. Clara counted.
"Two Mississippi?—"
Thunder.
"Two miles," she said. "You okay?"
"Yeah. Why?"
"Your hands." She nodded at his lap.
Jack looked down. His fists were clenched tight enough to make his knuckles white. He forced them open, flexed his fingers. He forced a levity to his tone that he didn't feel. "Not a huge fan of storms."
"After almost drowning in one, I don't blame you," she said.
"Yeah, that certainly didn't help."
Clara didn't push. Just returned to her counting, giving him space to decide whether to fill it.
Another flash. Another count. Another crash.
"My older brother, Joel, died in a storm," Jack heard himself say. "Seven years ago. January.”
His mouth had moved before his brain signed off on it. The counting, maybe. The quiet. The way she'd looked at his hands and hadn't made him explain. Something about this woman and this room and this storm had found the latch he kept bolted and just —opened it.
