We never made it to the train.

I had made my best to make sure nobody followed us. It never crossed my mind they didn’t have to, they only had to wait.

I don’t even recall any more what was it I wanted to say to Ichiro. All I can vividly remember is how, when I turned to face her, I suddenly saw a hole no larger than a button pop at the front of her white winter jacket. My mind was still trying to understand the meaning of this strange apparition when I noticed a cloud of fine pink mist and feathers forming behind her back.

Memory has a very strange way of erasing some details while virtually etching others right into our brains. Whenever I go back to that cold winter evening in Chiba Station everything becomes as fuzzy as a long forgotten dream. All I can see with vivid clarity is Ichiro’s face, the look in her eyes as she silently fell to her knees. It was not a look of fear or even anguish, if at all, it showed a vague puzzlement, as if she never really understood what was happening.

Only at the very few seconds before she finally collapsed forward to reveal the huge crater the explosive bullet had left in place of where her back used to be, did she show the slightest hint of surprised understanding. That look never had the time to fully form though, she was dead long before her body finally hit the snow.

It wasn’t until later, after the police had questioned me, that my hands and legs began shaking uncontrollably. There was no reason, of course, had they wanted me dead there was nothing that could have prevented it. As it was, I wasn’t a threat, not even a minor nuisance. In their books I was not even worth the cost of the single bullet needed to dispose of me.

I’d hardly known her (that much of what I told the police was thrue), so after a couple of days they returned my passport and I was sent to the airport on a small yellow cab.

The flight back to Mexico was a very lonely one indeed.

The tide crashed against the jagged edges of the rock, showering him in a gentle salty mist. There were clouds in the horizon, but neither numerous nor big enough to block the last shimmers of the setting sun in the distance.

How long had it been already? A year? Ten? He couldn’t help but chuckle at the memory of his anguish when he first learned of this lenghty, lonely assignment. Time meant so little here.

A couple of sea-hawks were calling it a day and heading back to their nests, magnificent flying silhouettes against the blue-grey sky. It was getting cold, and it would soon be dark. He turned away from the sea and headed back to the old building.

The newer ships didn’t really need his guiding light anymore, GPS, weather radar and radio beacons made sure the onboard computers kept them exactly where they were supposed to be. Still, this WAS a lighthouse after all, what purpose would it have left if it had no light to house?

The old generator made soft groaning noises as he purposefully cranked it up. He made sure all the right switches were in place, and let the light shine into the night.

At the top of the one hundred and fifty four step climb to the observation deck (he had counted each one them during the first month of his stay) he held his breath for a moment, as he always did when he watched the last rays of day fade into the distance.

The old and battered chair was there, as usual, waiting for him right in front of the western window.

The sweeping light from the tower was clearly visible as a sparkling beam in the mist, stretching into the distance.

He sat facing the sea. It was so peaceful here.

The first days of snow brought a strange calm to his bitter soul. He had for many years avoided human interaction, especially around the winter months when his pain grew worse.

Nell loved snow, she always loved to see it fall. Even in those terrible last days, when the pain was so strong she could hardly move, the only thing that brought a smile to her face was the sight of falling snow outside her window.

He would always remember the day he left her side for a few moments to get her a cup of hot tea. He came back to find her dead on her bed. Her eyes were still fixed on the window, watching the falling snow. He could still see her final smile, etched in her now cold lips.

A sudden breeze brought him back from his memories. He pulled his collar up his neck, watched the white-covered earth around him and, hearing the teapot whistling from the kitchen, headed back inside the cottage for a cup of tea.

Exactly when was it that I forgot?

Can I still recall?

The old sword is asleep
While the armor rusts away in silence.

I sit… and I remember.

Birth, death,
Calm and stillness,
Movement and change,
Never and now.

Everything flows,
Everything crumbles,
Reassembles itself,
Always, and never the same.

I came across this photoset in one of ma favorite blogs. I must say I found them all compelling and beautiful in their own sad way.

It certainly seems to have been abandoned in a bit of a hurry, which makes me wonder what’s the story behind this place, were many dreams broken when it shut down?

Via BoingBoing