Re: the lighthouse, inside.
For all that she was determined to drag him into being, make him tangible and solid like her, he was just as determined to resist. Normally, the man of smoke wasn't very strong of will. He capitulated easily. Colors bled and faded to grey, but he liked his smoke and he wasn't willing to give it up. Instead of dissipating, it would thicken; a defense mechanism. "If you think I'm real, that this is real, then we are," he agreed, conceding just this once to avoid a battle he had no inclination to fight. Smoke didn't fight. Smoke hid, smoke blinded, smoke made a hasty escape. It did not wage war.
He had no desire to hurt her, but he knew he had. Smoke wound around him like a coil, and he shook his head when she pressed back against the stones, more water, more cold. "It won't work," he explained, but he had no expectation that she would understand. Smoke was, too, impartial, and perhaps that was the most important distinction of all.
When she went down, he followed. No sound, no footsteps, not even when they reached the ground and he should have been sloshing through the same damp ground she was. He watched her try the door, and he watched her try the key. Neither worked, but he slipped up beside her and smoke curled around her wrist, nudging. "I can try."