🐾 Part 8 – The Watch from the Sea
Location: Cape Arago Lighthouse, Oregon Coast
Time: Mid-December, 1991
The sea gave back what it wanted, when it wanted.
That was something John Markham had learned the hard way. You could search every tidepool, every hidden cove, beg the horizon for a sign—and still, the water stayed quiet until it chose to speak.
That morning, it spoke.
John had just returned from his usual walk with Bramble when he saw the figure standing at the edge of the rocks. Not on the trail. Not by the beach. But right at the edge, where the surf crashed hardest. Bramble froze halfway up the bluff stairs, tail down, ears tilted forward.
The figure didn’t move.
John shielded his eyes. Old man. Heavy coat. Cap low. One hand in his pocket, the other clutching something that gleamed in the light.
“Stay,” John told Bramble. Then he made his way down.
The man turned only when John was within ten feet.
“You’re Markham?” he asked. His voice was cracked from cold and years.
John nodded. “That’s me.”
The man’s eyes were gray. Not storm-gray, but ash-gray, dulled from time.
“My name’s Walt Greeley. I was Dale Hennigan’s best friend. Served on the same deck crew in ‘Nam. Helped him build the Lorelei. I was supposed to be on it the day it went down.”
John felt the name hit like a soft hammer to the chest.
Walt extended a closed fist.
“I think this belongs to you.”
Inside his palm sat an old wristwatch. Stainless steel, face scratched. The second hand ticked, just barely.
John didn’t reach for it.
Walt saw the hesitation. “It was Dale’s. He left it with me the night before the last voyage. Told me to fix the band. I didn’t get the chance.”
John took a breath. “You’ve kept it all these years?”
“I didn’t know what else to do with it. But when Lena told me where you were, and what Bramble did… I figured it was time.”
He held it out again.
This time, John took it.
The metal was warm from Walt’s hand. The band was repaired—just barely, with a solder mark visible on the inside. The time was right, down to the minute.
“He wore it every day,” Walt said. “Said it reminded him of home. Said time was the only thing war couldn’t steal if you kept it on your wrist.”
John looked at the sea. “Then the sea stole it instead.”
Walt sighed. “But you gave it back.”
—
They sat inside with mugs of coffee and silence.
Walt wasn’t a talker. He carried his years like bricks—stacked quietly, deliberately.
“He used to say you were the most stubborn man he ever met,” Walt said finally.
John snorted. “Takes one to know one.”
Walt sipped. “He also said if anything happened to him, you’d blame yourself. No matter what.”
That quiet settled again.
John spoke slowly. “He was right.”
Walt set his cup down. “Then stop.”
The words were simple. But they struck with the force of years behind them.
“I’ve got no poetry for you,” Walt said. “No letters. No ‘it’s not your fault’ speech. I just have this.” He gestured to the watch.
“You kept time. That’s what a lighthouse keeper does. You mark time for others to survive it.”
John looked at the watch again.
The second hand ticked on.
—
That night, John lit the beacon with Bramble at his side. Walt had chosen to stay until morning, sleeping in the old guest cot where Lena once lay. The wind had quieted, the sea stretched out like a steel sheet beneath the stars.
John stood on the top deck, watch in one hand, compass in the other.
“I keep things now,” he murmured. “Not to carry them. To honor them.”
Bramble gave a low sound—half whine, half yawn—and pressed against his leg.
They descended slowly.
But before turning in, John took a nail and a small hook from the workbench.
He hung Dale’s watch beside the compass on the kitchen wall.
And beneath both, he taped Lena’s letter.
—
The next morning, Walt prepared to leave.
He didn’t say much. Just a firm handshake, a nod toward Bramble, and one last glance at the sea.
“Tell her I came,” he said. “She’ll know what it means.”
“I will.”
And with that, Walt disappeared down the trail, a shadow moving slow and sure into the pines.
—
That afternoon, John opened the drawer he hadn’t touched in years. The one where he kept the letter from the Coast Guard—the one accepting his resignation with “regret and understanding.” Alongside it was a faded photo of the Lorelei, taken three months before the wreck.
He laid it on the table, beside the flag, the compass, and the watch.
Then he added something new: a fresh sheet of lined paper.
He began to write.
To Lena.
You were right. Time does give. If you wait long enough. If you stay still long enough. If you let others come back to you, like tide returning to shore.
This place has never felt like a home. Until now.
He left me so many pieces of himself. The compass. The watch. The flag. The silence. But the one piece I never thought I’d have again was peace. That came with Bramble. And you.
Thank you for sending the light back.
Keep the flame. Always,
—John
He folded it. Sealed it.
Addressed it simply: Lena Hennigan, Salem, Oregon.
And for the first time in years, walked the mile to the mailbox where the trail met the highway.
The storm had cleared.
And the sea was quiet.
But John knew now—
Even quiet seas hold stories waiting to come ashore.
—
[End of Part 8]
👉 Continue to Part 9: As Christmas nears, a storm threatens the lighthouse—and Bramble must face the sea one final time.