The Cabin and Lighthouse

Ryan was standing in jeans and charcoal-gray shirt. A fire crackles in the fireplace behind him. And he looks rested, showered, and new. Nothing like how I feel. "How'd you sleep?" "Fine." Yet his voice is weathered and deep, perhaps a lack of sleep after all. His eyes stare unblinking, soaking me in. He's not someone who looks through you, past you, like you're not even there. His gaze is sharp, incisive, and an itch settles behind my eyes, making me want to look away. I set the pancakes and blankets inside the cabin. He then closes the door behind him. The cabin feels different with him inside it, and the glow from the fireplace smooths over all the hard, rough edges so that everything feels muted and soft. Ryan sits down and eats his pancakes and asks "Can you show me the lighthouse today?" In the room he reminds me of someone who has left his past behind. "Sure." My eyes scan the cabin. The tall wood bookshelves beside the fireplace are crowded with books and old almanaces and tide-charts periodicals, all covered in a decade of dust. When Ryan finished breakfast we leave the warmth cabin and rain started to come. The ash-gray sky presses down rain even more. We pass the small greenhouse where herbs and tomato plants and leafy greens were once tenders and grown, the glass walls now tarnished and smudged so that you can no longer see inside. The island has taken back most of the structures, decaying walls and rot seeking up from below. "The singing hasn't stopped," Ryan says when we're halfway to the light house, out feet making hollow clomping sounds that echo against the wood walkway. But in the wind, the voices are still there, sliding lazily in the sea air. It's so familiar that I hardly discern it from the other sounds of the Hollowland. "Not yet," I agree. I don't look back at him. I don't let his eyes find mine again. We reached the lighthouse and I pull open the metal door, corroded at the hinges. Once inside the entrance, it takes a moment for our eyes to adjust to the dim. The air is stark and smells of moisture-soaked wood and stone. A rounded staircase serpents its way up the interior of the lighthouse, and I point out to Ryan where not to step-many steps have rotted away or broken-and at times I pause to catch my breath. "Have you ever been taking?" Ryan asks when we're almost to the top of the stairway. "I wouldn't know if I had," I say between gasps for breath. "Do you really believe that? If your body was inhabited by something else, you don't think you'd know?" I stop on a solid step and look back at him. "I think it's easier for the mind to forget. To sink into the background." He doesn't seem satisfied, his jaw shifting to the left. "If it makes you feel better," I say with a partial grin, "if the Swan sister is ever inside me, I'll let you know if I can tell." He raises an eyebrow and his eyes smiles back at me. I turn and continue up the stairway.

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