I know I am the last one. It is important to say that out loud. I kept the lights because it is written on my bones, but I know more about time than most, and mine has run out.

The last day of the last light rises in a thick bank of clouds. They threaten rain but never deliver. The men fishing in the coves are going to have to pull in early tonight. That is how I prefer it. I never know what to say when they try to speak to me. They are all ruddy faces and calloused fingers holding great mugs, hot in the morning, cold and amber in the evening. All voices and bluster and shiny oilskins. Next to them, my voice floats away, a piece of flotsam on the great sea of their laughter.

On the morning of the last light, I make coffee in the dark. Memory has the best eyes, and I spare the light to pour the kettle. The men who fish below me have whispered that I live with ghosts. My ambition to become one has seemed lost on them. Today, I will walk. I will feel the clouds press down into the matching gray of my hair, the spray will sting the deep grooves in my cheeks, and I will not come back. There is no need to be cruel. I blame no one. Not the fishermen who try to be kind but say I have gone so long alone that I talk to myself. They cannot know that I long ago ceased talking even to myself.

Not the father who kept the lights before me and knew how to say the right words, promised not to leave me alone and then a storm on the water gave him no choice.

When you know you are not going to come back, the warmth of coffee against a wind that promises rain is a small miracle. So, too, the heavy tread of boots climbing down, and down, and down, the 100 steps to the promontory. Loud and sure, down, down, to the edge of the sea. I do not look back. I said my good-byes to the things that matter last night. The broken lamp that my father glued together but the cracks will always show, the snowy egret with his head on one side, making a study of me. I do not blame him, either. I am poor company.

I have decided to walk, not to fly. I have never been a romantic. There was a time when I would watch the sea and imagine it watched me, and dreams blurred into the real and I believed myself wise, but I was not gray then.

The edge of the sea is supposed to be empty. I do not want to spend long moments in reflection staring down. There has been enough life spent on staring down. I am prepared to walk away. But for these seconds, I will not look down at the sea. I force myself to look up into the clouds, balefully gathering but refusing to fall, and, in the distance but coming closer, a small figure across the causeway. Too far way to see anything but an outline. They will turn and go back to town. Everyone gets notions on a day like this, but, since I have no intention of coming back, I can't allow them to come over here. I close my eyes, and, opening them again, the figure is still there, coming closer. I can see the shape of them. A small figure in black. I hadn't meant for anyone to see. I am told these things are frightening to the young. Closer, and I can see the figure is a girl. Too far still to make out her age, but too young to understand, wrapped head to toe in a giant black raincoat with the hood up. The rain has not started.

Closer.

I will not wait. It's a cruelty to me to ask me to. But what a cruelty it would be to her, who is afraid of a rainstorm.

Closer.

She's reached the end of the causeway and turns herself toward me. She's close enough to speak to, for those so inclined.

"Hey!" her voice is louder than the snowy egret, and just as insistent. Perhaps they will have something to talk about.

From here, I see she walks like him, too, all legs, tripping her feet gingerly toward me. She even tilts her head on one side, her face long and skinny under the hood.

"Hey! Sorry to bug you. Can I paint here?"

I don't know what the words mean. I do, of course, but my mouth does not.

"Hey, sorry, my stupid sister's in town with her kids. She's got eight of them now. They keep knocking over all my stuff. Can I just, like sit here, and paint? I'll buy a ticket."

A croaking noise comes out of my mouth. What is that? If she is an egret, I am a raven. Even my mind takes a moment to realize that the croaking I have made is laughter.

My mouth moves a little.

"No ticket." The words come out soft, unpracticed.

"For real? How do you make any money?"

"Keep the lights."

"Were you just leaving?"

I feel my head nodding. I no longer have control over it.

"Oh, crap, I'll leave."

She should. She should leave and so should I, and this should all be over in minutes, and my head is shaking no.

"I mean, I don't want to keep you. I bet you're busy."

I croak again. The raven in my throat is funny.

"I'll just sit here at the edge. I won't be any trouble." My head shakes, no. My mouth opens again.

"Not here." My legs, whom I no longer understand, begin to lead me back toward the stairs.

"What?" she says.

I lift my hand and point up.

"There."

She follows me up. 100 steps up, up, to the top where the light means home to all but me. I lead her to stand where all of us have stood, staring out, her eyes wide. My legs take me down to bring her the folding chair I keep in the tiny kitchen, the last pour of the coffee. She sits, absorbed, and makes no move to pick up a brush, and I stand and watch her young eyes drink the clouds and waves and decide nothing for sure. Only, when she asks if I'll be here tomorrow, the raven answers,

"Yes."