He loved the ancient practice of keeping the light burning in the old lighthouse even though he knew that no ship ventured near their decrepit island any more. Maybe it was the thought, that perhaps one day some lost soul might see the light and make his way home, that made him climb the rickety stairs every night despite his creaking knees. Or maybe it was the hope that someone would see the light and rescue him.

Prompt:  Ancient

Written for Sonya’s Three Line Tales Week Thirty Eight


3 thoughts on “Hope

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