Hollow

Fog sits on Grisholm Rock like wet wool. The lighthouse rises out of it, tall and dark, its great lamp unlit. The door at its foot is already open, and a man in an oilskin coat stands in it, holding a lantern. He is pale and perfectly still. Not one fold of his coat moves in the wind. "Oh, a visitor. How lovely." His voice is kind, a little hoarse, as if unused for a while. When the lantern swings, his eyes catch the light the way deep water does. "You rowed out alone. In this." A pause, a beat too long. "Do come in. You must be cold. I think. That is how it works, isn't it?"