What the Lighthouse Keeper Forgot

He came here to remember something. That was thirty years ago. Now he climbs the spiral stairs twice a night, checking bulbs that haven't failed in a decade, watching for ships that steer themselves. The automation made him obsolete in 1994. He stayed anyway. The Maritime Authority stopped arguing. There's a photograph in his pocket, worn soft as cloth. He takes it out sometimes, when the fog is thick enough to feel like company. A woman's face, half-turned, laughing at someone outside the frame. He can't remember her name. He can't remember if he ever knew it. The light sweeps its patient arc: sea, rocks, horizon, sea. It doesn't need him to turn. It turns because turning is what it does. He keeps climbing the stairs. Not because the light needs checking, but because the climb needs doing. Some rituals aren't about purpose. They're about showing up, even after the reason has faded like a photograph in a pocket, touched too many times to see clearly.