The old lighthouse keeper, Silas, squinted at the churning sea. A storm, the likes of which he hadn't seen in fifty years, was brewing. Waves, the size of houses, were crashing against the jagged rocks below. The wind howled like a banshee, and the rain stung his face like a thousand tiny needles.

He checked the lamp, its beam a comforting, steady light against the growing darkness. It was his duty, his oath, to keep that light burning, no matter what. He'd seen too many ships lost to the treacherous coast.

Suddenly, a monstrous wave slammed into the lighthouse, shaking it to its foundations. The lamp flickered, and a cold dread washed over Silas. He scrambled to re-ignite the flame, his hands trembling. He had to, for the sake of the ships, and for the memory of all the sailors he had saved. He managed to get it back on just as the next huge wave hit.

The storm raged for what felt like an eternity. When the first rays of dawn finally broke through the clouds, the sea had calmed, and a small ship, battered but intact, was sailing towards the harbor. Silas, exhausted but relieved, watched the ship safely reach the shore. He knew that his light had guided them through the sh**storm. He smiled, the light reflecting in his kind eyes, and went to make his morning coffee.