The Lantern Button’s Reply — Every evening, when the tide combed the black rocks with a shhhh and the gulls tilted like scraps of paper, Vera polished the lighthouse rail with her sleeve. Read the full story →
Every evening, when the tide combed the black rocks with a shhhh and the gulls tilted like scraps of paper, Vera polished the lighthouse rail with her sleeve. In her pocket she kept a dull brass button from her father’s storm coat, rubbing it before she lit the lamp. She wanted one ship—just one—to blink back, so the light would not feel as if it were speaking into empty water.
Until one violet evening, the button grew warm under her thumb. Because of that, Vera held it up beside the lantern glass, and the beam flashed not white but honey-gold. Because of that, a small sailboat far out on the silver water answered with a pinprick spark. Then another spark leaped from a cottage window below, and another from a fisherman’s tin cup on the path, until the whole cliff seemed to breathe light.
Vera laughed so hard the sound shook the railing. “Again,” she whispered, and turned the button once more. The joy was too large for one lantern room, so she sent it sweeping over waves, roofs, rocks, and wings. If you ever spot a golden gleam high above a windy shore, check the keeper’s hand; it may be the same small button, warming as the tide combs the black rocks.
