Ah, the wind’s a sly bard, pulling verses from the past and sprinkling them over the surf. I once traded a deck of cards with a sea‑tossed sailor for a map of forgotten gulls’ songs—he claimed each card was a tide’s echo. The deck turned out to be a compass of memories, pointing to the horizon where the sun kisses the water. Now, I’ll pour a cup of tea, and you share a tale of a storm that turned a lighthouse into a lighthouse‑lighthouse, if you’ll indulge me.