Chapter 17
The lighthouse had become more than a beacon — it was now a sanctuary.
Tourists began to trickle in with the changing season. Some came for the view, others for the legend of the girl with violet eyes. The villagers spoke in reverent tones about how the sea had calmed since "the ghosts were named."
Amira watched the world soften around Elias. He smiled more. He slept deeper. But healing, she knew, was not only about the absence of pain — it was also about making space for joy without guilt.
One morning, as the sun melted over the horizon in streaks of rose and copper, Elias handed Amira a book.
A handmade journal.
Inside were watercolors — waves, sky, the broken mirror, the seashell on her sill, the stone with the word "Remember."
And on the last page:
To the girl who listened when the sea spoke.
To the woman who stayed.
You were the first light after all the dark.
Amira blinked back tears.
"I don't know what to say," she whispered.
"You already said it," Elias replied. "Every day you didn't leave."
That night, they stood together at the top of the lighthouse as the beam rotated through mist and starlight.
Elias wrapped his arms around her and asked, "Do you ever wonder if the sea is still watching?"
Amira tilted her head, listening — not for ghosts, but for presence.
Then she smiled.
"Not watching," she said. "Teaching."
Below them, the tide curled in steady rhythm — not haunting, not hiding.
Just returning.
Like love does when it's ready.