"Storm ended. Sea calm. God is over all." (Lighthouse logbook's last entry, dated December 15. Possibly a fabrication, a fictional addition to the true story.)

"A large wave swept them completely away." (official report)

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We listened, but we only heard

The feeble cheeping of a bird

That starved upon its perch:

And, listening still, without a word,

We set about our hopeless search.

Flannan Isle - W. W. Gibson

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The moment we walk inside, she is with me, alive again, exactly as I remember her. She's perfect and I'm the most happy man even though I realise she will be gone, for good this time, in the morning.

This lighthouse is the thin place I've been searching for for so long, and this night is a miracle... It's my chance to say the last goodbye, so I can move on, so I can set her free to drift wherever she needs go to wait for me, instead of holding her tied to this world like my ghostly shadow.

I choose not to comment on the magic of the night, afraid to ruin it, when I notice the eerie strangeness and sublimity of the moment.

The lighthouse feels like our home, without the interior having changed at all-- I'm still in the white tower reigning like a formidable, ghosty queen over Eilean Mòr, with the perfect storm raging outside, and yet I'm not, for she is here with me and I'm in the place she created for us for this one night...

She comes for me when I don't move from the door, my legs bound by surprise and elation, takes me by the hand, giggling softly as she always did at my awkwardness caused in moments like these by the excess of love I feel for her, leads me into the middle of the circular room where she wraps her arms around my waist and we kiss, long, deep and final, then pulls me, our breaths erratic, hearts racing as on the first night we spent together, to one small round window resembling a porthole of a ship. There she stops in front of me, leaning into me, her back to my front as I encase her in my arms from behind and we stare, spellbound, speechless, at the infinite expanse of the black, heaving sea lit at intervals by strikes of lightning, fast, sudden like the falling stars, there and then gone only to be replaced by new golden flashes devoured swiftly by the hungry water.

Sounds reach us muffled by the thick walls-- the relentless crashing of the sea echoed hundreds of times, the strange bird calls produced by feathered creatures we can't see, the incessant howling of the wind... They can't obliterate the sound of our hearts beating in harmony, emitting our love in Morse code to each other, as if we needed the confirmation and reassurance after the time we spent apart... We don't. Nothing has changed. Our love is just as strong as it always was and always will be.

The night reigns in its stygian gloom outside, pierced by the slow swipes of the cone of captured sunlight issuing from the lens revolving around the tip of the tower above our heads, moving light searching the mass of heaving water, and words are superfluous as we kiss again, and then move around the place guided by habit, the ritual of a night spent together-- we prepare a meal and dine, and later get ready for the night, and talk, talk constantly, aware that this is our last occasion.

We talk about us, and of the old mystery surrounding this lighthouse and all the theories about the three keepers' disappearance-- those about murder, and greed, and the wish of starting a new life far away, those of ghost ships, giant birds and sea serpents, and those about the ancient Celtic magic, a curse cast over this isle, the huge wave... And then, even as we drift towards the narrow bed we will share tonight, we dismiss them all. Maybe the men simply drifted through the misty veil of this thin place into a different world. No one will ever know.

We refuse to give the mystery another thought as we kiss at the foot of the bed and hold each other for a long moment and then... I allow her to conduct the night, to make it unforgettable as only she can, as she always did.

In the morning, she is off at the break of the day, walking out of the arched door with the first ray of sunshine pushing through the veil of night. But this time, I'm here to say my last goodbye.

I hold her for a long moment, then kiss her again, for the last time, cupping her precious face in my hands, staring in her grey eyes as I whisper, "Goodbye, Anna."

She nods and smiles back as she walks down the stone track, then turns and waves before she drifts through the mist at the level of the ruined church.

"Goodbye, my love," I whisper again to myself, wiping my eyes with my sleeves, then walk back to tidy up and collect my belongings. I must hurry if I don't want the old captain to leave me here. There's no point in staying. Anna is gone, but she'll always remain with me, in my memories, until, one day, we will be reunited again.

I walk down the cliff breathing the island in, bathed in sunshine today, smiling as I notice the perfume of tea roses clinging to me like a shadow, and reach the west landing even as the boat appears on the horizon.

The same sailor jumps into the water to tie the vessel to the dock to allow me to embark.

"So? What does the old man say about the storm I conjured up for you?" I tease the man when his captain doesn't show to say hello before the boat moves away again, its bow breaking waters smooth as oil today, glowing like silk in the sunlight.

"Storm?" the guy wonders, scratching his dark head, eyeing me suspiciously through narrowed eyes. "There was no storm last night."

I nod, unsurprised, dismissing him as I find a deserted spot on the deck offering a perfect view of the island and its cursed lighthouse we're leaving behind. Just like more than a hundred years ago, Eilean Mòr produced a mystery and a perfect storm that wasn't perceived anywhere else.

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We thought how ill-chance came to all

Who kept the Flannan light:

And how the rock had been the death

Of many a likely lad:

How six had come to a sudden end,

And three had gone stark mad:

And one whom we'd all known as friend

Had lept from the lantern one still night,

And fallen dead by the lighthouse wall:

And long we thought

On the three we sought,

And of what might yet befall.

Flannan Isle - W. W. Gibson