Zane had been assigned to Lighthouse 43 for a reason he couldn't quite remember—disciplinary action, probably. The lighthouse was fifty miles from the nearest coastline, planted firmly in the Gobi Desert, surrounded by an endless sea of shifting sand dunes.
His job was simple: climb the tower every sunset and activate the massive light. He would sweep the horizon, tracking nothing but empty, orange-hued sand, then turn it off at dawn. It was a monotonous, lonely existence, punctuated only by supply drops every three months.
The isolation began to warp his mind. He started talking to the dusty machinery. He polished metal parts until they shone like mirrors. He began to believe he was actually guiding something.
One night, the storm wasn't a sandstorm; it was rain. The sky opened up with a ferocity the desert hadn't seen in centuries. Flash floods turned the dunes into temporary rivers.
Zane dutifully climbed the stairs and turned on the light. The beacon cut through the torrential downpour. For a brief moment, during the apex of the storm, he saw it: a massive, dark shape navigating the temporary waterways below. It was smooth and sleek, a beast built for the ocean, not the desert.
He watched the creature—a whale? A massive submersible?—navigate using his light. It had been decades, maybe centuries, since the secret protocol was initiated: Keep the ancient sea lanes open. The world had changed, the seas had dried, but the deep currents and the things that traveled them remained.
The creature vanished as quickly as it appeared. The rain stopped at dawn. By noon, the desert was dry again, the sand blank and undisturbed.
Zane didn't question his duty again. He polished his brass gears with renewed vigor, the silence of the desert no longer feeling empty, but full of deep, ancient secrets.
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