The Fog Horn's Song

The old lighthouse keeper, Eli, squinted at the horizon. Fog, thick as pea soup, had rolled in

overnight, swallowing the island whole. He tapped his weather-beaten hand against the worn

logbook. Every morning, a mark, rain or shine. Today, a question mark. The silence was broken only

by the rhythmic crash of waves against the rocks.

Suddenly, a faint honking pierced the fog. Eli's heart lurched. A ship, lost in the soup. He raced up

the spiral stairs, his lungs burning. Through the thick pane, he saw it – a small fishing vessel,

precariously close to the jagged rocks. Panic pulsed in his veins.

He grabbed the foghorn lever and pulled with all his might. A deafening blast echoed through the

air, a mechanical scream against the fog's silent grip. He repeated the blasts, his muscles straining.

Below, on the deck of the trawler, figures scrambled. The ship altered course, the honking fading as it

pulled away from the danger zone.

Eli slumped against the railing, chest heaving. His vision blurred, and for a moment, he saw his

younger self, the day he'd taken over from his own father. Back then, the foghorn had been just a

lever. Now, it was a lifeline, a song of warning in the ocean's lullaby. He wiped his eyes, a single tear

tracing a path through the salt-etched lines on his face. He reached for the logbook, his hand steady.

Today's mark wouldn't be a question. It would be a life saved.