Charlotte Stephie Sylvie -

So they went.

Stephie snorted. “I love her.”

Stephie’s voice was soft. “We’ll take her pictures. Video.” charlotte stephie sylvie

The point was the light. Not the grand, sweeping beam—but the small, steady one. The one that just blinks and stays. So they went

The point was the climbing. The point was the three of them, still together, still choosing each other in the rain. “We’ll take her pictures

“I’m just saying,” Stephie said, peeling a gummy worm from her thigh, “if we’re going to drive four hours to see a lighthouse that might be haunted, we should at least stop for decent coffee. Not gas station tar.”

They climbed the rest of the way in a tangle of arms and quiet laughter. At the top, the wind hit them—raw and salty and impossibly alive. The ocean wasn’t the turquoise of postcards. It was iron-gray, white-capped, endless in a way that made your chest ache. The rain had stopped, but the air was thick with mist.