"Has it really been ten years?" Aaron murmured, squinting up at the old lighthouse, its paint long peeled by salt and storm. His sister, June, who had barely spoken since they left the car, just stared.
They’d spent whole summers here as kids, scrambling over rocks, tossing bits of shells into the ocean, shouting back at the seagulls. But today, the place seemed like a stranger—worn, half-sunken in the sand, as if the world had quietly decided to erase it.
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"It’s smaller than I remember," Aaron said, trying to break the silence.
"It’s not smaller," June replied quietly. "It’s just forgotten."
There was something in her tone that made Aaron’s stomach twist. She wasn’t just talking about the lighthouse; she was talking about Dad. They hadn’t talked about him in years, not since he disappeared from their lives, but the echoes of his absence hung here, as palpable as the salty air.
They trudged inside, shuffling over the dust-covered floorboards. June immediately went to the corner where their dad used to set up his fishing gear. Even after all this time, she still remembered the exact spot.
"He was always so... determined, wasn’t he?" Aaron said, his voice barely audible.
June sighed, brushing her fingers over a worn piece of driftwood left behind. "He used to tell me that if you wanted something, really wanted it, you had to give up something else. Said that’s how life worked." She glanced at Aaron, her eyes haunted. "Guess he wanted something more than us."
Aaron looked away, the guilt gnawing at him. Back then, he’d never questioned it—never questioned the nights Dad didn’t come home, the mornings where only half-empty coffee cups and unanswered notes waited for them on the counter.
"I always thought he'd come back," June said, breaking the silence.
They fell into a slow, awkward dance, moving through the rooms like they were tiptoeing around ghosts. Every space held a fragment of memory—the faded red couch, where they’d laughed over silly cartoons, the rusty lantern by the window, which their dad would flick on as he told them ghost stories. And yet, everything was shrouded in dust, as though the place had been holding its breath, waiting.
"Why did you even want to come back here?" Aaron finally asked.
June shrugged. "Closure, I guess? Or maybe... I thought if we came here, we’d understand why he left. Find some kind of answer, you know?"
"You think answers are hiding in the dust?" Aaron tried to laugh, but it came out hollow. He didn’t believe in closure, not really. He’d spent his life running from questions, filling the empty spaces with noise, with anything that wasn’t Dad. But now, with the scent of salt and decay thick in the air, the questions were crowding in.
June picked up the old lantern from the windowsill, shaking off the dust. “Remember this?”
“Yeah,” he replied, his voice distant. “It was his favorite. Wouldn’t let us touch it.”
“Well, he’s not here now, is he?” With a defiant glint in her eye, she struck a match and lit the lantern. A soft, wavering glow filled the room.
They stood there in silence, watching the flame flicker. It was small, fragile, but warm in a way that felt... familiar.
"He wasn’t all bad, you know," June murmured. Her voice was different now, softer. "He taught us things. How to find constellations, how to fix things... he wasn’t just... gone."
Aaron clenched his jaw. "But he left, June. He left. And he never came back. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”
Her gaze dropped. “I know. But it’s more complicated than that. People don’t just leave because they don’t care. Sometimes they leave because they’re lost.”
“Lost?” he scoffed. “That’s just an excuse. He made a choice.”
She looked at him, her eyes welling up. “And you think we’re any different? You think we’ve never hurt people because of our own mess?”
June’s face softened. "You don’t have to forgive him, you know. But maybe… maybe you can just remember him. The good and the bad.”
They stayed there, side by side, staring at the soft light from the lantern. It was just a flicker, a reminder of something long gone but not entirely lost. Maybe, June was right—maybe some things, some people, weren’t meant to be understood. They were just meant to be remembered.
After a long silence, Aaron took a deep breath, the smell of salt and dust filling his lungs. “You want to stay here a little longer?”
June nodded, a faint smile touching her lips. "Yeah. Just a little longer."
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