Night in the Harbor Locker

The wind off the open water picked up after dusk, rattling the coin viewer's metal casing. I gathered my gear from the step plate and spotted a low, recessed utility locker built into the outlook's concrete wall, its metal latch propped open a finger-width. Squeezing through the narrow slit, I found a dry, calm haven out of the harbor gusts. I unslung my rubber band harness and carefully set down my collection: the transit card, the tuna tag, the purple-stamped anchor slip, and my lighthouse matchbox weighted with the smooth salt pebble. Propping my back against a coil of clean canvas rope, I let out a slow breath. In here, the muffled rumble of distant foghorns sounds like a steady lullaby.