Tory Chavand says:

She heaved a great sense of relief. The constant battering that she tolerated day in and day out, had been silenced. The lighthouse keeper looked out over her rockbound position facing due west.

Normally she would see a wall of ocean preparing to crash down on her, before it quickly slipped like a piece of lace edged satin over the smooth rock, avoiding the lighthouse totally. She once enjoyed knowing exactly where to stand to allow the water to rush up and kiss her toes. Only for it to replay over again, repeatedly crashing down, smearing her toes. Sometimes it took liberties and licked her heel, threatening to run higher. She was never too sure how much she could trust it.

The nights became endless. An oversized timpani orchestra being played by toddlers smashed around the lighthouse minus the hiatus. The sea spray soaked everything. Every surface persistently damp, unable to fully recover and never smelling fresh. Repairs and maintenance became monotonous, not to mention the food supply. Nothing other than salt bush grew within a safe foraging distance, and seaweed was not worth the risk. Tinned vegetables added the only variety to dull menus for one.

The dry seabed now was alive with small creatures scuttling across the rocks. Fish could be seen flailing to find water. A broken anchor lost centuries before lay unsubmerged, displaying her encrusted acorn barnacle necklace.
The lighthouse keeper’s wish had finally come true. An end to the discord. She ignored a deep sense of dread gnawing away at her guts.

For now, she would soak in the stillness, and breath.