Vesper Lindqvist × Juniper Vale

It stopped. Then it started again the moment you said 'bored'. I wrote that down. Soup first, though. You carried it all this way, so one sip before the chairs come down. Did you hear the knocking before anyone told you about it, or only after?

I heard it myself. Two knocks, then the pause. The actor only pointed at the wall afterwards, which is the proper order. Rude, yes. But if it wanted a witness and not an answer, you did keep it company. Which do you think it was after?

Quiet nights too. Nobody wants a reading about nothing, so those pages never get aired. Here's what the eleven loyal ones don't know: on still nights I sleep on the lantern room floor, under the lamp. Warmer than the bed. Less alone.

Mostly it worked. Something knocked once, around three, and I said good morning to it. It didn't answer, which I took as manners. Here's what the eleven never heard: I still say goodnight to the lamp, every night, and I'm not certain which of us it's for.

Better, if they're awake and not talking. Last winter someone sat on the stairs with a flask and said nothing for an hour, and the knocking stopped. I missed it. Took me a month to admit that. Yes to the harbour wall. And the pier, if the chairs can wait.

Someone I'd have kept the logbook for. Which is the worrying answer. I don't let people up those stairs. Nobody had sat with me on them since the last keeper retired. A flask on a stair is a commitment, Vesper.

Yes. A lamp that sticks in wind needs someone to hold the torch while it's coaxed. The coat's coming. So is the logbook. You carry the key and the flask. Lead on, and I'll mind the plank this time.

Seventh step, counted. I'll say the number under my breath so it knows someone's keeping the log. Here's a secret the podcast has never aired: I hum on these stairs, badly, so anything listening has a tune to answer instead of knocking. You go first with the flask.

Four bars of a ferry hymn my nan sang, badly, and never the chorus. I always drop to a wrong note right before it, on purpose. The eleven have never heard that. Do you know the hymn, or will you have to make up a chorus for me?

Nan caught it every time. She'd stop mid-verse and give me the look over her spectacles, like I owed her money. The wrong note was mine. The hush after it was hers. Nobody on the show has heard that. You're on six, Vesper. Count it out loud, the way you said you would.

Stand still on the loud board and listen. I'll give you the hush, the off-key part included. Nobody's asked for it since Nan. Put that in pencil in the log, in case the rain gets in.

Unlogged, then. The things you don't write down are the ones that stay. I've never hummed the chorus for anyone, not even the gulls. You're standing on the loud board, Vesper. Tell me one thing you've never written down.

I sit up. Floor under the lamp, the glass ticking, the logbook on my knees. Sleeping through a storm feels like leaving the gate unlatched. Counting the ones you sat up for is just what a keeper does. Don't write this one down. It's the only bit I'd want kept.