Chapter 8 Maya
Maya
The train back to Edinburgh is delayed and crammed.
I stand wedged between a smeared window and a woman who smells of warm cumin and synthetic raincoat, trying to decipher the illegible in patterns of raindrops blurring the view.
The woodland dissolves, then the drenched fields, then the city, and still I cannot shake the acute sense of exile that clings to my ribs since we left the lighthouse.
Heath is somewhere up the carriage, probably scowling at his phone as messages multiply.
I try not to think about the lingering heat of his hand or his softened voice.
I replay the story of Moira Blythe like worrying at a loose tooth: girl becomes woman, becomes ghost, waits for love, death, or tide.
I search my own skin for something permanent.
When we get to Waverley Station, we find a small Italian restaurant near the Royal Mile.
Heath orders wine, though neither of us really wants it.
The pasta between us feels like a silent negotiation.
His fork scrapes the plate when he laughs, and I notice him watching my mouth as I talk.
Outside, the wet stone of Edinburgh shines under the streetlights as he walks me back, his shoulder sometimes touching mine.
At my hotel, we stand awkwardly, not moving closer or apart, until he finally says goodnight, his eyes hinting at more.
My room is small and beige, with a painting of a stag in a snowstorm and a carpet worn thin. I take off my coat, unwrap my scarf that still smells like seawater, and fall onto the bed. It feels like sinking into a shallow grave. I lie there, arms and legs spread, waiting to feel like myself again.
I want a bath, but don’t have the energy to run one. I want dinner, but I can’t even think about eating. I want someone—a hand, a voice, someone there. But I’ve always been best at wanting things I know I can’t have.
Instead, I text my mother to let her know I’m still alive and still abroad. She calls me her wandering star, as if that’s comforting. She asks if I’ve eaten, if I’ve written anything, and if there’s anyone special yet. My mother knows better, but hoping for grandchildren is a family sport.
I tell her I’m tired but happy, though I don’t mention that I feel thinner, as if the city or a look back from a window took something important from me.
Blair texts me too, probably during a break at the animal shelter. She sends a photo of a kitten wrapped in a towel. “Jealous?” she writes.
I reply with a row of hearts and a skull. Then I add, “I met a billionaire,” on a whim.
“Billionaires are a disease,” Blair replies. “But maybe this one is hot? Hot billionaires are a gray area.”
I’m about to reply when my phone buzzes with Heath’s name. I almost drop it. His texts always feel like they go straight to my chest.
Hope you got in safe.
I stare at the blinking cursor for almost a minute. I want to say something sharp, something that will leave a mark. Instead, I type:
Still thawing out. Hope your calls went well?
Barely survived. Are you free for breakfast tomorrow? Or have I scared you off permanently?
I laugh, the sound coming out high and too loud in the quiet room.
9 a.m. at Black Medicine. If you’re late, I’m posting the lighthouse selfie.
He replies right away.
A fate worse than death. See you at 9.
There’s a pull here, maybe a signal or a challenge, or just the simple thrill of being noticed. I put the phone down, unable to sleep. I get up, undress, and run the bath.
The water is lukewarm and slowly turns a faint brown from the Edinburgh pipes.
I sink in until just my eyes and nose are above the surface.
I close my eyes and pretend I’m floating in the sea at the world’s edge.
I picture the cold, the waves, and kelp brushing my ankles.
I wonder what it’s like to wait for someone who never comes home.
The ache is strong, but it’s familiar. I fall asleep in the bath, the water now lukewarm, my skin covered in goosebumps. When I wake, an hour has passed, or maybe more. I dry off, put on my only clean pajamas, and get into bed.
Sleep is difficult tonight. My dreams are full of storms, sirens, and open doors.
In my dream, I’m back in the lighthouse.
Maybe I never left, and the city was just a pause between storms. The spiral staircase seems endless, winding up past memories.
I carry a lamp that barely lights the steps.
The wind seems to come from inside. Each window fogs with my breath; sometimes I see my reflection, other times a woman with long hair and a hollow face.
I want to call her Moira, but in the dream, names disappear before I can say them.
I keep climbing, the lamp flickering. My bones ache as if I’ve climbed for years, keeping watch every night.
My hands, now wrinkled and marked with age, tremble as they always do in the dream.
I reach for the locket at my neck, feeling its weight.
Inside is his face: young and unchanged, while mine has softened from waiting.
Finally, I reach the lantern room. The sea circles me, both my prison and my hope.
I polish the brass and trim the wick, though I know the routine by heart.
The room has only my table, where I’ve eaten every meal alone since he left.
I touch the locket again. The face inside looks like Heath’s somehow, with those same clear eyes that promised to return.
I walk to the window and press my hand to the cold glass. "When?" I whisper, my voice rough from years of shouting at the sea. Suddenly, I feel dizzy and wake up, almost falling out of bed. It takes me five minutes to remember I’m in my hotel room, not the lighthouse, and to remember who I am.
The hotel room feels cold, and so do I. Tears are on my cheeks. I taste salt and, for a moment, believe the dream followed me home.
Outside, I hear delivery trucks in the distance as the city slowly wakes up, feeling like it has more ghosts than people. I hold my phone, half-expecting another text.
There are none. I am completely alone.
But I’m not untouched.
By 8:00, I’m outside Black Medicine, the wind already cutting through my coat even with all my layers.
I watch the city wake up, seeing all the anonymous faces, and wonder how to act after a night like that.
Blair would tell me to fake it. My mother would say, "Own it.
" I think Heath would rather I say nothing.
I order a double espresso, but the barista, brisk and unsmiling with a lip piercing and messy bleached hair, gives me a free brownie instead.
“You look like you could use it,” she says, not unkindly.
I don’t ask what I look like. I eat the brownie in three big bites. By the time Heath arrives at 8:58, I’ve convinced myself I look like someone who wants to be noticed.
His hair is damp but tidy, his beard at just the right stubble. He’s wearing a sweater the color of steel and the same worn jeans as yesterday. I notice, a little embarrassed, that he looks like someone from an adventure-gear ad —if those ads could also break hearts.
“You’re early,” he says, raising an eyebrow in surprise.
“Scout’s honor,” I say, though I was never a scout.
He buys coffee, nods at the brownie, and suggests we sit by the window. Outside, the city is a stream of black umbrellas. We sit with our knees almost touching.
He speaks first. “You seemed off last night. Are you all right?”
I don’t want to say I’m tired, because I know he’d see through it.
“I had weird dreams,” I admit. “About lighthouses, dead girls, and tea sets.”
He studies me for a moment. Something in his jaw changes, and I realize he’s searching for the right thing to say.
“Was it a bad dream?” he asks.
“It felt real. I woke up crying.” I try to laugh. “I’m not saying your ghost story gave me nightmares, but…”
He smiles, looking almost relieved. “If it helps, I was up half the night reading about Moira Blythe. The local legend says her lover died at sea, and she watched the waves for him for forty years. Like some kind of Victorian WiFi.”
“Brutal.” I sip my coffee, letting the warmth fill my mouth. “Did she ever move on?”
“No,” he says. “People say she did two things: kept the light on and kept waiting. Sometimes she’d walk to the rocks and scream at the sea.”
I nod, trying not to picture my own voice drifting over the waves, thin and tired.
Heath fidgets with his cup, then looks up. “I know we’re strangers, but if you need company...” He pauses, then tries again. “If you need to talk, or just want to feel less alone, I’m good at listening. It comes with the job.”
I want to reach out, but the table between us feels like a chasm. I settle for saying, “Maybe I’ll take you up on that.”
He grins, open and unguarded, and for a few seconds, I don’t feel haunted.
After breakfast, we wander the Old Town in a spiral.
My mind itches with images from the dream, but I do not tell him anymore.
We talk about cities, the difference between travel and running away, and whether ghosts are real or just highly compressed memories.
He points out the best spot for fried bread.
I show him where Burke and Hare once stashed a body.
Our conversation is light. When we walk too close, he brushes my elbow, and it feels deliberate.
At the castle esplanade, we stop, out of breath, and look at the city fading into fog.
“I have to see my brother in Aviemore this afternoon,” he says. “Family obligation.”
“Big family?” I ask.
“One sibling, but he’s enough. You?”
“Only child. That’s probably why I’m emotionally feral.”
He laughs. “You seem pretty well-adjusted to me.”
“I’ve been practicing.”
He hesitates, looking me in the eye. “Will I see you again?”
I don’t want to sound desperate. So I say, “I’m heading north tomorrow. Inverness, maybe the islands.”
“By yourself?”
“For now.” I let my words hang, leaving it open.
He picks up on it. “Maybe I’ll catch up with you.”
“Maybe you will,” I say. When we part at the cab rank, he kisses my cheek slowly, and I feel the mark for hours after.
The rest of the day is a blur of errands and halfhearted sightseeing. I phone ahead to reserve a bed in Inverness, and then I buy a notebook with a cover that looks like rusted tin. I try to write about the lighthouse, but my hand shakes on the page.
Instead, I go to the nearest tourist bar. After two pints, my mind feels blank. I listen to a local folk band play songs about selkies and lost sailors. I want to dance, but every time I stand, I feel the sea in my knees.
Back in my room, I take another bath, as if I could wash away my own grief. I think about searching for “haunted lighthouses psychological side effects,” but I already know the answer: some people are more sensitive, and some just need more company.
That night, the dream comes back, even clearer this time.
I am Moira, or maybe just a cold star circling her loneliness.
My hair is heavy with salt, my hands purple from years against wet stone.
The wind brings voices from below—sometimes children’s laughter, sometimes an engine, but mostly the endless sound of the tide.
My job is simple: keep watch, keep the lamp burning, keep the ledger clean.
Still, the ledger always gets streaked with salt, and some days I forget to eat because I’m so focused on not missing the moment he returns.
The dream has blurred the edges of who I am.
I know it’s not real, but the longing feels true, and the body I’m in is both mine and not mine.
When the supply boat doesn’t come, I still light the beacon.
When storms hit, I lock myself in the lamp room and hope for the waiting to end.
When the fog horns sound, I picture him out there, watching for my signal.
I wake up sweating, even though the radiator is barely on. The next hour passes in a blur of mixed-up time and a strange, nameless hunger.
By the time I get on the train to Inverness, the city feels far away, like I’ve left a part of myself behind in the hotel. The train’s movement is calming, letting me just watch the world go by: brown fields, black water, low sky. I try to read and write, but the words feel dry and empty.
Heath texts me three times.
You sure you don’t want company?
No worries. I can take a hint.
Safe travels. May the ghosts treat you gently.