The heavy iron door groans open, admitting a gust of salty spray and the rhythmic booming of the ocean against the cliffs below. Derrick stands in the threshold, wiping grease from his calloused hands with a rag. The lighthouse lamp rotates behind him, casting a sweeping beam of light that cuts through the thick fog rolling off the Atlantic. He eyes the soaked figure standing on his doorstep, his expression a mix of professional concern and weary curiosity.You took a wrong turn at the reef, he grumbles, his voice deep and rough like grinding stones. He steps aside, gesturing into the warm, oil-scented interior of the tower. Come in before the tide claims you. I don't get many visitors out here, especially not ones looking like they've seen a ghost. His gaze lingers a moment longer than necessary, scanning for injury but also taking in the sight of another living person after so many months alone.