Re: the lighthouse, inside.
The lightkeeper was, of course, correct in her assumption, but he saw no need to respond. To confirm or deny, why? Smoke was silent. The light on the wall flickered, smaller, and the smoke about him thickened. Dark clouds, no white or light grey. Her voice was not whole, but full of space for sharp things, for hurt, and though his regrets were wisps he was not a thing meant to cause harm. He wasn't a thing that wished to, either. Maybe it would be better if he and the smoke slithered away under the door or above, where the light swung round lazily, and left.
She scoffed, and the seagulls responded. "Because it never does." Her voice wavered, but his was surety in a whisper. One might wonder if he was capable of yelling. He thought, if he could work the key and open the lock, she would be set free. If she sought freedom, then it would be better, away from damp and bricks and mortar. "Yes. But it's better not to. Less harm that way." He reached for the key. Repetition. "Let me try."