The old lighthouse keeper, weathered and salty like the sea itself, squinted at the

horizon. A storm brewed, inky clouds gathering like angry fists. He adjusted his
oilskin coat, its worn leather whispering tales of countless tempests. Inside, the
lighthouse hummed, its powerful beam a watchful eye against the coming darkness.
Below, nestled in the cliffs, the tiny village bustled with nervous energy. Mothers
hurried children indoors, fishermen secured their boats, a silent prayer hanging
heavy in the air.
Unaware of the brewing chaos, a lone seagull soared on the wind's breath, its cry
sharp against the growing silence. It dipped towards a weathered buoy, bobbing
precariously on the waves. A flash of silver - a fish! The seagull swooped,
snatching its prize with a triumphant squawk. But the victory was short-lived. A
monstrous wave, frothing with fury, rose from the depths. The buoy disappeared in a
white torrent, and the seagull, caught off guard, was swept away by the relentless
surge.
Back at the lighthouse, the keeper felt a tremor in the floor. He knew. The storm
had arrived. With a grim determination, he climbed the winding staircase, each step
echoing in the hollow tower. Reaching the lantern room, he wrestled open the heavy
hatch. Wind howled, a banshee's wail, tearing at his exposed face. Rain lashed
down, stinging like needles. But through the storm's fury, the keeper's gaze
remained steady, his hand on the giant lever controlling the lamp. With a powerful
heave, he flicked it on. A brilliant beam sliced through the darkness, a beacon of
hope for the village below.