Chapter Fifteen
Blake
Stinkwood Island / Flashbacks
Int. Lighthouse — Dome Room — Dusk
Still slumped in the leather chair, Blake wakes. He runs a hand over his face, blinks away the sleep. He stares up at the glass dome.
Int. Blake’s Family Home — Day (Flashback)
Thomas Adams (35, weathered hands, gentle eyes) sits at a handmade desk, compass and ruler precise beside detailed lighthouse blueprints.
His pencil moves with practiced certainty.
Eight-year-old Blake creeps up behind him, studying the drawings.
Young Blake
Dad, you draw the same tower every day.
Thomas
Not the same. Each one’s a little different.
Young Blake
(squinting at the papers)
They look the same to me.
Thomas turns in his chair.
Thomas
Come here, mate.
Young Blake climbs onto his father’s lap. Thomas points to subtle differences in the drawings.
Thomas
See this angle? This window placement? Getting them exact…
Young Blake
Why do you love lighthouses so much?
Thomas
(thoughtful)
They guide lost travelers home. Safe harbor.
He pulls out a photograph—red cliffs.
Thomas
Stinkwood Island. Almost finished now.
Young Blake
Can I come see it?
Thomas
(smiling)
One day.
Elena Adams (30s, paint-stained apron, warm smile) enters carrying tea.
Elena
Still at it? Go wash up for dinner.
Young Blake runs off.
Thomas carefully rolls the blueprints.
Elena
(lowering voice)
We should tell him.
Thomas
(shaking head)
After his adventure camp. This is just a quick delivery run.
Elena
The trunk’s packed. And that letter you wrote him.
Thomas
(touching a wooden trunk nearby)
Everything he’ll need to understand. The lighthouse will be his inheritance.
Elena
Tom, why does this feel like we’re saying goodbye?
Thomas
(kissing her forehead)
Because you worry too much. We’ll be back Sunday night. Blake comes home Monday, none the wiser.
Elena
Promise me we’ll bring him there together next summer. Show him what his father built.
Thomas
(holding her close)
Promise.
Ext. Adventure Camp — Day (Flashback — Two Days Later)
Young Blake rappels down a rock face, LAUGHING with pure joy.
At the bottom, a Camp Counselor waits with other kids.
Counselor
Nice work, Blake! You’re a natural at this.
Young Blake turns to see a Police Officer approaching, hat in hand, expression grave.
The boy’s smile fades. He knows.
Int. Grandmother’s Kitchen — Day (Flashback — Six Months Ago)
Margaret Adams (75, silver-haired, twinkly eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses) sits across from Blake (29, military uniform, tired eyes) at a worn wooden table.
Legal documents spread between them alongside tea and biscuits.
Margaret
(gently)
You don’t have to decide everything today, love.
Blake
(distant)
Twenty-one years with you, Gran. Feels weird going through their stuff now.
Margaret
(studying him)
The army keeping you busy?
Blake
(hollow laugh)
Busy enough. Another deployment coming up.
Margaret reaches across, touches his hand.
Margaret
Your father wouldn’t want you running from grief, Blake.
Blake
(defensive)
I’m not running. I’m serving.
Margaret
For eight years? That’s not serving, that’s hiding.
Blake pulls his hand away, looks out the window.
Margaret
(softer)
I found something in the attic. Your father’s old photo albums.
She produces a weathered album, opens it to show Thomas and Elena at various construction sites.
Margaret
He documented every project. Except one.
She turns the page. A single photograph: Thomas and Elena standing beside a completed lighthouse on red cliffs.
Blake
(surprised)
Where’s that?
Margaret
Cactus Loop. Northern Australia. It’s yours.
Blake stares at the photo, seeing his parents’ proud faces.
Blake
Why didn’t you tell me?
Margaret
You weren’t ready. Too angry. Too hurt.
Blake
(quietly)
I don’t remember them talking about it.
Margaret
You were eight.
She closes the album.
Margaret
Instead, I got a broken little boy who blamed everyone for taking his parents away.
Blake
(emotional)
Gran…
Margaret
(firmly)
Twenty-one years. Enough.
She slides a deed across the table.
Blake picks up the deed, studies his father’s signature.
Blake
(conflicted)
I’ve got responsibilities. The army…
Margaret
(interrupting)
The army’s got plenty of soldiers. I’ve only got one grandson.
She stands, begins clearing dishes.
Blake
You’re right. I need to make some calls.
Margaret
(smiling)
To the army?
Blake
(standing)
To my commanding officer. I’m ready to come home.
End of Chapter Fifteen