Re: the lighthouse, inside.
"Not always. Higher likelihood that it will. Or won't." Patience in the hoarseness of his voice, and the smoke could linger, could wait, for seemingly an eternity. He didn't think that his lack of optimism would make her drown, but then perhaps he didn't grasp the full nature of her situation. Her dress was wet, she was trapped here, she wanted his shirt to cling to dryness and stave off the cold. But he didn't think he could rescue her, that wasn't what the man of smoke did. He would only fail in such a task. Maybe he could open the door, give her a fighting chance, but that was as far as his limited abilities extended. He looked at her, something weary in it, and even the smoke settled along his shoulders as though it could use a rest. "Yes." It was a weighted word. "I've come full circle from where I began," he added, and maybe it was an explanation, or maybe it was nothing at all.
She said it was bad, and maybe it was for her. She was tangible. She wanted a life beyond this. Him, he was satisfied with his smoke. Nothing could hurt if nothing could touch him, and he could touch nothing. "It's not enough for you. Then try. I'm not telling you not to. But you and I, we're not the same." He withstood the slosh of water better this time. If she hoped for success, then he hoped she achieved it. He was a different story entirely, and when she asked who, he shook his head. Smoke swirled. Words had never fallen easily for him, even less so now. One day they might never fall at all, eternal silence.
He wished he hadn't tried, for now that he'd begun he felt obligated to see it through. Perhaps a small, small part of him even wanted to. She was cold, he could see that, and he shook his head again when she reached for his wrist. He was getting there. He was. "No. I'm not talking about you. I'm talking about me." The man of smoke had dragged others down with him before. Now that he had found a way to become intangible, he wasn't going to repeat the past. Finally, the last button was undone, and he tossed the shirt her way. It was just fabric, washed-out grey; the smoke didn't follow, it wasn't hers. It clung to him still.