At the edge of everything, where wild winds whipped over wine-dark waves and the air was cold as ice, he waited in his lighthouse. Only a narrow, snaking bridge of stone – a bridge few would ever be brave enough to cross – connected it to the shore.

On moonless nights, when the waters were especially rough and the shadows seemed to stretch like black fingers, a low and terrible noise came from that tower, as if it contained Hell itself.

This is for Three Line Tales. Thanks to Sonya for running the challenge and William Bout for the prompt photo!

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