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What lies beyond the sea foam? The waves?
The ocean itself and the lands beyond it? Chlorochrous ripples bid farewell to their brothers and sisters and set paths towards each end of the sea.
They will dissipate long before the journey is complete.
If they'll never get there, why do they try?
The voice of a distant memory holds smoke, turns his head lightly and asks: “Is this it for us?”
She turns her head away as the memory exhales through his nose.
Anorisaki Lighthouse, Japan, 1988
Thick fogs roll out, Monika adjusts the giant lantern at the tip-top of her home.
The ocean comes back into her view at long last. The same as ever, as always.
Meaningless tides push and pull at one another. Wherever one ends and two begins—it doesn't matter—is invisible to the eye.
Roughly a mile away in the opposite direction the faint outline of the city of Shima's Mie Prefecture can be seen.
The windows are foggy, she notes. Best to clean those off.
She checks the clock: five in the morning, approximately.
Monika sighs, making her way down the winding stone steps of the tower and into the adjacent house. Home sweet home (and whatnot).
On her way to the kitchen, she stops by her bedroom to grab an elastic.
If breakfast must be made in one's pajamas, then one’s hair must be out of the way, at least.
Taidana, the thirteen-year-old akita who's never done a thing in his life, raises his head at her entrance; momentarily curious, then returning to minding his business at his spot by the screen door. He is held by a leash tied to a hook in the wall. Reasonably, he could probably escape if he wanted too.
Monika leans down to scritch his head as she passes.
The fridge opens with a squeaky groan. Its contents are moderately colorful (milk, strawberry syrup, bread, gyudon, leftover ise udon), as are the contents of the baker's rack to its left (onions, pancake mix, more bread, red wine).
A bowl of steamed rice from last week is what she takes out, transporting it into a bowl and setting the microwave to two minutes. Monika starts the coffee machine.
She leaves to get changed. As little difference as it makes, no one being around to see her outfits, going about daily work activities in sleepwear is impractical, and often times borderline dangerous.
Taidana starts barking as Monika is tying her boots. Monika rushes into the room.
Taidana growls, eyes trained on the screen door, left ajar.
The microwave door has been opened, too; Monika’s leftover steamed rice stolen.
Monika reaches into a drawer by the stovetop, and pulls out a knife.
Something is here. There is a gun at the bottom of the staircase leading to the top of the lighthouse.
Warily, Monika trails down the hall, stepping on the tips of her toes.
The old floors creak slightly. She flips on every light switch on her way there.
The screen door had been opened; chances are it's outside.
Monika opens the glass hatch displaying the gun—a Tanegashima matchlock, an old one, designed to harm, not kill—and removes it slowly, placing the knife in the hatch instead.
Armed, Monika steps, with a fair deal more confidence, back to the kitchen. It is as it was when she tiptoed away: screen door ajar, microwave door ajar, stolen breakfast.
Taidana seems to have calmed down. Though, he's still baring his teeth at the door.
Monika squints. Then, leans down to unclip his leash.
Taidana makes a run for the door. It opens with an obnoxious rattle when he slams it open with his whole body.
Outside, the voice of a young woman screams.
My God, Monika thinks, and then she's out the door.
The woman outside is young, maybe even Monika's age, sporting salmon-pink hair and a clip on bow, which is slightly worn down and a bit damp looking. Her clothes—denim capris and a pink sweatshirt—are similarly worn down. Her sleeves are rolled up, and Monika has a good view of her hands.
The tips of her fingers and wrinkled as if she's just been swimming. She has an atmospheric ghostly glow to her, especially her pale blue eyes. In the grayish light of early morning, she appears nearly translucent.
When Monika focuses, however, she is entirely opaque.
In her hands, is the (now half eaten) bowl of rice and a pair of chopsticks. The stranger goes still.
“U-uhm…heyyyy?”
“Who are you?!” Monika raises the gun, aiming it between the intruder's eyes.
“Woah!” She exclaims, putting both hands up, one still holding onto the bowl. “Just hungry,” she says, like it explains everything.
Monika furrows her brows. Who does this girl think she is?
“Who the hell are you?”
The intruder lowers her hands, picking up the chopsticks and twirling them around in the bowl a bit.
“I'm Sayori!” Sayori grins, pulling the chopsticks to her face. She calmly chews on a glob of rice. “What's your name?”
“So let me get this straight,” Monika says. Her fingers rub firm circles against her temples.
Upon inspection, Sayori was dubbed: not a threat. She had stolen Monika’s steamed rice, yes, but hadn't meant any harm—just to steal.
She was still hungry as she explained all this to Monika.
So, Monika had graciously found something else for Sayoru to munch on as she explained her story, and poured herself a cup of coffee with the largest mug she owned, a pink birthday gift from her mother that said “Tired of this B.S.”
Sayori nods, now chewing on the reheated ise udon.
“You're from the city,”
“Mhmm,”
“You wandered and got lost on the way to the grocers,”
“...Mhmm,”
“And you wound up on the coastline at five in the morning?”
“That is correct, yes.” Monika squints at her.
This girl looks way too old to be getting lost on the way to go shopping.
“So-”
“Hey!” Sayori interrupts. “If you're the keeper of the lighthouse, how old are you?” She tilts her head, sort of like Taidana when he sees a treat. “Because you look really young. And, like, usually when I see lighthouse keepers in movies and stuff, they're all really old men.”
“I'm twenty-four,” Monika replies evenly.
“O- Hey, we're the same age!” Sayori grins that beaming smile again.
“My turn!” Monika chimes before Sayori can ask her another question.
Anyway, it wasn't Sayori's house that got broken into, Monika probably has a right to be asking the questions here.
“Mm?” She hums innocently.
“Why not just knock on my door?” Monika asks. “Asked for food? Why steal?”
At this, Sayori actually has the nerve to look sheepish. She holds her curled fists together at her chest, bringing her pointer fingers to touch.
“Well,” she chuckles. “By the time I saw your lighthouse, I realized I was way up North. So I could figure my own way back… but…”
“But…?”
“I realized I was hungry,” Sayori giggles, laying her hands flat on her lap. “I was just gonna snag a snack and go, haha!”
Monika resists the urge to face-palm.
“Actually, I'm only sorry I got caught,” she admits. “And that I scared your dog…”
… Fair enough.
Clearly, this girl was either lying or not the brightest.
If she was lying, then she wasn't very good at it, and would almost certainly get caught again if she continued out here. If it was the latter, then… Well, either way, this girl should not remain unsupervised in the wild, or she was going to get herself killed.
Deep breath in, Monika reminds herself.
“Do you need a ride home?” She asks, gripping her coffee mug just a little too tightly.
“No thanks!” Sayori answers, a little too quickly.
Monika quirks her brow.
“I-if you want me out of your hair so badly,” she gets up to leave. “I'll have no trouble finding my own way back, thank you so much!”
She wanders out into the hallways, her footsteps cease.
“Uhm,” she pokes her head back into the kitchen. “Where is the door?”
Monika levels her with an unimpressed glare.
Three days later…
The pen has a purpose, Monika considers.
It's unfair.
It spreads messages, writes stories, brings ultimate joy or despair or contentment.
The pen brings about information, and Monika sits there wondering what her purpose is.
She writes out ideas in bullet points for her most recent short story idea. The actual drafts and final product will be typed out.
The typewriter, which sits on a desk in its own corner of the living room, was one of the first things Monika transported when she moved in.
She leans back on the sofa, letting her head fall backwards and tilt to stare longingly at the typewriter.
If only it were practical to simply conjure up a story. It would be easier to just write, instead of having to think it through and write it all down and bother with first and second drafts.
She turns to face the notebook in her lap. Maybe storytelling is her purpose, like the pen. The joy of spreading content could be why she labors through the process time and time again. This could be reason enough for existing.
How trivial, she considers gloomily. There cannot be just the love of writing.
There is nothing greater beyond it.
There is no conclusion, no greater idea which the writer serves.
They live for the happiness they find in storytelling. There is nothing beyond that.
Love should be enough, a voice whispers in the back of her head. Monika has to agree with it, but it's not a concept she'll accept. She craves a more satisfying explanation.
There must be something beyond that. There must be something more than what life has played out for her thus far.
She taps the pen against the paper repeatedly.
The light air of spring departs, fixing stagnant summer fog and rain in its place.
Monika adjusts the lighthouse beacon.
Today's rain is light and scattered. Heavier storms are to be expected later within the month, but for now Monika drinks lemon tea on her porch.
The pitter patter of droplets assaulting the awning soothes her.
It soothes many people, Monika thinks. Rain is calming and beautiful, as a start, but also provides life and hydration. The rain knows its purpose.
Taidana finishes up his lunch and his clawed footsteps (pawsteps?) scatter around the kitchen, likely he is searching for his bone. Monika listens to him from behind the screen door, thinking about what else she has to do today.
She's already cleaned the lenses of the beacon, replenished the fuel, taken weather readings, wound clocks and checked all automated systems within the lighthouse.
She does still have to replace the light bulb in the living room.
She really does not want to do that.
Sipping the last of her tea, Monika decides to grab a book from her small library. Her friends from high school used to make fun of her relentlessly back when she lived in Shima's more populated areas.
Of course, the whole wall filled with books in her bedroom doesn't hold a candle to the entire room she now has for holding her growing collection of literature.
She owns books of every variety. Rereads her favorites until the words have burned themselves into her heart. Her passion for the sea pales in comparison to her avid adoration for literature.
A book is always a good idea.
She places the teacup in the sink to be washed later, and sets a path for the mini-library. The library is a full room, yes, but only the size of a small classroom. It's more of a lounge surrounded by bookshelves, if anything.
Every shelf is sorted, first by genre, then by author. Series, however, get their own wall entirely, though they are also sorted by author.
There are two small couches and a single armchair.
The room is centered around a rectangular coffee table that sits at a height barely reaching Monika's knees. On it, is a small pile of books, each bookmarked at a different spot, and a few coasters dispersed for the rare occasion she hosts any guests.
Monika enters, heading for the books on the coffee table, but stops.
On the opposite end of the room, is a woman.
Her vaguely translucent figure is tall and looming, with long purple hair that does nothing for her already imposing appearance.
She is dressed nicely in an elegant black skirt and a button up with a long sleeved sweater over it. She holds a book in her hand, “Portrait of Markov”.
The figure gasps in terror when she realizes Monika's presence, fading out of opaqueness completely and moving through the wall.
The book remains solid and drops from her hand.
… Was that a ghost-? Monika considers for a moment that a lighthouse could very well be haunted, still in shock.
She hasn't noticed any spirits or unexplainable events, though, in the three years she's been living here.
But what else could that've been?
Burglars don't simply pass through walls. A terrible thought passes through her head, then.
Was Sayori a ghost?
Monika had chalked up her ghostly appearance and semi-ruined clothes to her trek through the woods all night, but maybe that was a cover story.
Maybe Sayori was whatever that thing was.
Monika shakes her head.
That's a silly thought. Sayori wasn't a ghost.
Whatever it was that happened as she walked through the door was just her eyes playing tricks on her.
The book must've fallen of its own accord and Monika's imagination simply got out of hand trying to rationalize it.
She laughs to herself, the idea of lighthouse keepers going mad from isolation suddenly seeming much more plausible.
She picks up the book and returns it to its home on the bookshelf-wall.
Monika finishes up the repair on the beacon, and heads up the few steps to check on it. The lantern functions as it should.
It lights up the night sky, fulfilling its purpose of guiding ships to safety. It promises safety to thousands of lives.
Monika sees one in the distance, a transport ship. It's long and displays a proud pointy edge. Most of the lights are on, and Monika wonders if it's transporting goods or people.
She stands against the railing. The sea breeze caresses her face, chilling her nose and rosying her cheeks.
Through the intense shine of the beacon, it's tough to make out any stars. But the night is clear, and the moon, in full, is easily spotted. It casts a beautiful but faint shadow on the side of the transport ship.
She pulls her cable-knit sweater tightly around her, chilly fingertips finding solace in the inklings of warmth found in the fabric.
She exhales as hard as she can. She can see her breath if she squints.
The loneliness brings a kind of comfort that the search for purpose could never. It invites the idea that everything is fine as is.
Right now, where you are, the world is at peace.
There is a beauty in isolation, Monika thinks. A unique tranquility of the sea, the stars, the sound of waves, her and the person next to her.
…
The person next to her?
…
Monika does a double take and staggers back as she registers the person next to her.
The small stature of a girl, with unruly bright pink hair. At first glance, she appears to be a child.
“What the hell?” Monika exclaims.
The petite girl turns her head to look at Monika. She raises her brow in slight offense.
“Do you mind?” She asks in her squeaking voice. “I'm brooding, have your existential crisis elsewhere.”
She is unfazed, and turns her head back to watch the sea with a critical gaze. Monika stares at her intensely.
Is she human? Is she whatever Monika saw back in the mini-library? Maybe that was a ghost. Maybe Sayori was a ghost, too.
The lighthouse might be haunted.
“O-oh God,” Monika mutters to herself, feeling sick.
The girl moves her head to look at Monika once again. Mild concern shows in her eyes, but she stays perfectly still, body facing the ocean.
“Are you, like, okay?” She asks.
“I'm going mad, I think…” Monika replies, and curses herself for entertaining the girl’s (the hallucination's?) questions.
The girl (ghost? spirit?) considers this for a moment.
“Could be,” she muses. “You've probably been all alone out here for a while. I'd believe you're going nuts.”
“Even my hallucinations are telling me I might be insane,” Monika groans, running an exasperated hand across her face.
“Hallucination-?!” the girl sputters, recoiling in offense.
“What else would you be?” Monika dares to ask. “For weeks, the only human interaction I've had is with maybe-hallucinations who keep breaking into my home!” Her volume rises with every word, frustration boiling over.
Monika sighs and rubs her fingers against her temple. Now she's talking to thin air. Wonderful.
“I assure you I'm very real.” the girl places her hands firmly on her hips with a frown.
“Yeah, yeah. Whatever,” Monika mumbles.
“I am!” She insists. “Not that I'm a person,” she clarifies. “But still!”
Monika elects to ignore the babbling child, turning to lean against the railing and watch the dark sea.
The girl huffs, lips and cheeks forming a pout. She steps forward grabbing ahold of Monika's shoulder and forcing her to face her.
“This real enough for you?” She taunts.
Monika watches, wide-eyed, as the very real girl gives her a solid push. Though she's quite weak, Monika goes stumbling back anyway—perhaps from the shock of it.
“What the hell?” Monika raises her voice, and the girl flinches back. “How did you get up here, then? And where are your parents?!”
The girl relaxes, leveling Monika with an unimpressed glare.
“I'm dead, stupid.”
“What?”
“D-E-A-D. I am dead.” She giggles. “Hello? Is this thing on?”
Monika continues to stare her down. Ghosts aren't real.
She'd seen some crazy stuff before, but she'd been alone for so long there was no reason for paranormal activity to simply… occur? Not so suddenly like this.
She feels as though she is fast asleep, and water has been poured all into her ears.
The girl loses all amusement. She watches Monika with impatient eyes, for a few moments, then turns back out to the water.
Monika rubs her fists against her eyes. This girl was just a very vivid hallucination. She had to be.
When Monika removes her hands from her face, the girl has disappeared.
...
A hallucination, then.
A very lifelike hallucination.