Phenomenal, Agmoore! I didn't feel as if I was reading a story. Instead, it was as though I was a fly on the wall listening to the final words of a powerful presence.

You gave life to the phrase, "If these walls could talk." Your La Sentinelle was aware beyond itself (to the point of realization of how Hugo will be remembered and the way his demise will be marketed to tourists), imbued with knowledge, foresight, and an empathy for the lighthouse keeper who had faithfully tended to its every need.

Proudly stood the lighthouse for ages and your story exudes this majestically with each phrase. It will not meekly submit to merely being adjusted and ignored, left to operate without soul. The radio (love how you worked that in) has its disdain and society's indifference its disgust.

My sinew, my grit is made of grander stuff. I was conceived in blood and toil. The harvesting of my granite from the earth consumed lives, as did the clearing of land so that I might rise and give light to the night.

This is so very quotable that I feel it should be framed and hung.

With affection, respect, and certainty towards Hugo, wanting him to have peace in this ultimate moment, the two tumble at last into the sea.

This is a story that I'll be remembering, thank you!