By Leo Pollard
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The sea was calm.
It had been calm for many weeks now. Gentle waves lapped against the shore like a lullaby, the salt air soft with peace. The sun rose and fell without disruption, and the ships — scattered across the open water — sailed easily beneath clear skies. The calm was welcomed with open arms by vessels of all shapes and sizes, for it had been a long, hard season before this one. A season of restless tides and uncertain skies. This peace felt hard-won.
But then came the storm.
It did not come from the horizon where storms are meant to form, where sailors watch and prepare. No — this one came from behind the lighthouse, from the very place where safety once stood.
The lighthouse was the first to fall.
That beacon of guidance, once constant and bright, flickered once… and then vanished. Its light, a promise of sanctuary, was swallowed as thick clouds rolled over the cliff like a slow, suffocating avalanche. With them came the rain — sharp and cold like broken glass. The thunder cracked open the sky, and the lightning struck the earth with blind rage.
The storm came without warning — sudden, furious, and intimate. It was not a stranger to the sea. It knew where to strike.
The winds howled as if the sky itself screamed. The sea, once calm, began to churn. Waves reared up like monstrous beasts, slamming into the shoreline and devouring it in frothing salt and rage. The foam sprayed far inland, soaking everything in its reach. The water turned dark — impossibly dark — reflecting the storm clouds above.
The ships, adrift and unaware, were caught in the storm’s claws.
The smallest ships capsized first, torn apart by the violence. They had no hope. The larger ones held on longer, but even they were tossed and battered, their masts splintered, their anchors useless. The land was gone from sight. The stars, erased. Direction lost.
The storm was not a passing one. It did not move through — it stayed. It howled and shrieked, raged and rained, tearing at the sea with relentless fury. Days blurred into nights. Nights bled into weeks. Weeks twisted into months. The storm’s voice became the sea’s own language — loud, chaotic, unrelenting. And then, one day, it broke.
Not with peace, but with exhaustion. The storm drifted apart slowly, reluctantly. The clouds thinned. The winds fell quiet. But in its wake was devastation. The lighthouse did not shine. Its lens was shattered, its tower scarred black with soot. Its silence was deafening.
The waves still crashed, uneven and wild. The water never fully stilled. The ships — so many — remained broken, floating aimlessly or sunk beneath the surface. Their names forgotten. Their journeys ended.
The storm is gone. But the sea has not calmed.
It still remembers.
And it always will.
The lighthouse remains — its tower still standing, but hollow. It does not shine. Its light, once a symbol of safety, now means nothing. Even if it were to shine again, the sea would no longer trust it. For what is a beacon worth, when it goes dark the moment it’s needed most?
Now, when the sea sees other lighthouses on distant shores, it watches warily. Their light no longer brings comfort — only suspicion. What storms do they hide? Which of them, too, will go dark when the waves rise?
The sea does not seek their guidance anymore. It navigates by the stars it can still remember, by the wreckage it has survived.
It is not calm.
But it is still here.
This story was written to speak in symbols where words feel too fragile. The sea is us — soft, vast, capable of carrying others even when we are tired. The storm is what was done to us. Sudden. Violent. Unasked for. And the lighthouse was supposed to protect us. To help us.
But instead, it betrayed us. Not by failing — but by choosing not to shine. When someone meant to offer guidance and safety becomes the source of harm, trust breaks in a way that language struggles to describe. This story became our way of naming it — without having to say his name.
Even now, long after the storm has passed, the sea inside us is not calm. It is cautious. Suspicious of lighthouses. It doesn’t always know who to trust — or if trust is even worth giving.
But the sea is still here.
And that matters.
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