Re: the lighthouse, inside.
A year locked in this endless turret wasn't good for obscuring memories. All there was, was remembering, and the lightkeeper had reminisced day into night, and night into day. She had time to go over the minutiae of the past, and to examine all of her mistakes and shortcomings. She knew what it was to be desired, and she knew what it was to merely be tolerated. She knew that she wasn't something longterm, that - like the lighthouse - she had an expiration date, a point where anyone in her company would get tired of her complications, and she knew Smokey wasn't alone in those feelings. It was just a matter of waiting, like she waited for the water to reach the point where she sucked it into her lungs, and like she waited for the lighthouse to crumble to nothing.
But he'd taught her something, the man of smoke and evasion. If she was going to be ultimately unwanted, then it was best to do so fearlessly. Side effects or not, she would rather grab a few minutes of something, even if meant the lighthouse crumbled faster. Because standing there, guilt on her cold and waxen lips, she remembered acutely what it felt like to be unwanted.
He didn't take the shirt, and the lightkeeper clutched it to her chest as he walked to the door. "You matter," she said. Why would the light bother turning if the people outside the lighthouse didn't matter? "Sorry I wasn't what you wanted." She was sorry. Her eyes were red, and her nose was running, and it wasn't the cold or the trembling that made her cry.