She was a lighthouse wrapped in fog.

Not the kind that warned of danger, no—hers was the soft beacon on a forgotten cliff, the kind that hummed lullabies in Morse and kept the ghosts of shipwrecks company. Every blink of her light was a secret held too long.

He was a storm dressed in Sunday clothes.

He arrived in thunderous silence, all polite lightning and borrowed calm. He carried a skyful of unsent letters in his chest and wore rain like a second skin, never staying long in one place, always looking for the next sky to rattle.

Their first meeting was a collision of weather—static kissing stone.

She blinked her silence at him.

He answered in wind songs and uprooted certainties.

They danced like tide and moon: never touching, always pulling. She gave him the rhythm of her light; he gave her the music of movement. Neither knew the other’s language, but both understood the ache of translation.

When he left, as storms do, he peeled away the clouds and left her shivering in sunshine.

But she, once only a watcher, began to hum louder.

And he, once only a wanderer, left behind one thundercloud—a promise tucked in the tide.

Some nights, when the fog thickens and the sea holds its breath, she flickers just once too brightly.

And somewhere, under a distant sky, thunder pauses to listen.