Re: the lighthouse, inside.
"Because it never was, that isn't the same as because it never will." Optimism, hope, and the dampness of this prison hadn't managed to drown the sentiments entirely. She didn't think his wavering voice meant she was going to sway him, but maybe something could. The lightkeeper didn't stop to think that it shouldn't matter whether or not he was swayed. It was her job, illuminating everyone but herself, and this smokey man with his non-answers and non-comittment, he qualified for the brightness of the beacon more than someone who came to the door and knocked boldly. That was just how it was, and she was no more likely to question it than she was likely to question the sickly place that held her. Because she got it, she understood. "What does it hurt to try?"
Less harm. She scoffed again as he reached for the key, and the reluctance to let him try was two-fold. He could try and fail, and then what little hope she had left would be drowned at their feet. He could try and succeed, and then he'd be gone, and she'd be left alone. She didn't think she could get out, so that wasn't even considered when weighing the possible outcomes of this travesty. "Less harm for you?" Another scoff.
But there was this thing about determination and the stubborn need to will things into tangibility; it didn't stop. It didn't slither under doors, and it wasn't forgotten. In her soaked shroud, the lightkeeper turned her back to the heavy door, her hand still upon the steadfast key. "Make you a deal. You try with the shirt. Tell me what you care about. I'll let you try the door." The lightkeeper sounded a little smug, and the smugness was jejunity in her voice. Like her unlined hands, and she kicked some water at his smokey ankles to punctuate her generous offer.