The old man lived in the lighthouse, and no one could say for certain what his real name was. All anyone knew was that he had kept watch over the lamp for decades, and it never once failed to light.

His work was simple: to take messages from sailors, and send them on their way.

Whenever a ship came alongside, a seaman or two would step down the gangplank and pull a much-folded piece of paper from inside his coat—unstamped, unaddressed, carrying only a name, sometimes no name at all—and press it into the old man's dry palm.

"Give this to the wind for me," they said.

The old man would nod and never ask more. When the ship put out to sea again and the lighthouse beam swept across the water, he spread those papers one by one on the sill and let the land breeze carry them away.

He said the wind knows where every phrase is meant to go—just as the waves know the shore.