Short story: "The Lighthouse's Last Log"

On the day the lighthouse went automatic, Mr. Park wrote his last log entry.

"22:14. All clear. Sleep well."

For thirty years he had ended every log that way. He never knew who he was saying it to. The sea, the passing ships, maybe himself.

The new control system learned from every old log: the weather, the tides, the repairs, and the same sentence written at the same minute every night.

Retired, Mr. Park moved to a small house at the foot of the hill. He could see the lighthouse from his window. The first night he couldn't sleep, so he counted the flashes. One every ten seconds, as it should be.

At 22:14 the light blinked one extra time. Short, twice.

It did the same the next night, and the night after. A man from the harbor office said it was a minor glitch and offered to fix it. Mr. Park waved him off.

"Leave it. It means all clear."

The man left looking puzzled. That night Mr. Park sat by the window and waited. 22:14. Short, twice.

For the first time, he answered.

"You too. Sleep well."

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I asked Claude for "a short story about a machine inheriting a person's habit, not a sad one," then edited it a little. Is the last line a gem or slop?