The structure stood defiantly against the elements—a tall, cylindrical tower of weathered brick, its windows broken and its lantern room empty. A rusted iron door hung loosely on its hinges, groaning with each gust. The lighthouse’s paint peeled in strips, revealing the bare brick underneath, a reminder that even the strongest keepers of light eventually crumble.

Connie Carter had never been one for grand gestures. She was the kind of person who would spend an entire Saturday afternoon repairing a squeaky kitchen cabinet, or linger for hours in a tiny second‑hand bookshop, turning the pages of forgotten novels as if each one might contain a secret map. Her life, up until the summer of 2024, was a series of small, reliable habits that stitched together a quiet, predictable rhythm.

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