He gazed outside and thought about how many other foster homes he had been through before this. Tired and worn out he drew the fraying, rotting curtains back with a screech. He flopped onto his bed, or rather air mattress, and began to unpack. It was quite late, and he had tried to sleep, but the squeaking of his new bed, and the smell of the rusty window frames was enough to keep him up.

Quietly as possible he unzipped the little suitcase and pulled out his belongings; he had to stifle a cry when he pulled out a card from his mum. Her handwriting stirred up so many memories, like someone had just stepped on the ocean floor, unearthing sand and seashells of happiness, heartbreak and pride. “Stop crying” he told himself “boys don’t cry” he said. His father’s words crashed round his head, giant waves falling on the rocks, washing the people on the shore away. It stirred up more and more grains of sand; except these were boulders. Boulders of rage. Boulders of envy, of hate and fear and resentment. They were hurled around by the sea, churning faster and faster, being thrown at his lighthouse of sanity. The black boulders were launched with such precision, smashing the glass and snuffing out the light. The shadowy stormy shore of his mind was spiralling out of control. It felt like he was falling into a dark abyss. Tumbling down, to be devoured by the jaws of the broken. Consumed by the darkness. Not even the flames of anger could light your way if you’ve fallen this far.

He started crying.

The tears drizzled out of his eyes, first in a gentle, suppressed trickle. Was one tear really so bad? But then another came ... and another. Then the tears rained out. He tried to stop, but he couldn't. He actually couldn't. They got worse, until he was trapped in a downpour of sobbing. He grabbed his pillow and pressed it against his face, trying to muffle the sounds of sobs.

"Oh sweetie," said a gentle voice. It was Mrs. Dally, the not-mother of this foster home. He pressed the pillow even harder against his face, and tried to turn away. Kind arms suddenly wrapped around him. He tried to struggle away, feeling even more ashamed, but she held him too tightly for him to resist. Eventually his efforts subsided, and so did his tears. Somehow, he felt better.

"I know we weren't exactly prepared for you," Mrs. Dally whispered. "But we'll make things right, Will. We'll make things right."

Will rubbed his teary face, and for once, he dared to hope that this time, things in foster care would be different.

The next morning, Will woke to the smell of frying bacon and the distant cry of gulls. For a moment he forgot where he was. Then the thin mattress squeaked beneath him, and the unfamiliar ceiling stared back. Right. New house. New routine. He sat up slowly, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. His chest still felt tight from last night, but the storm inside him had quietened to a dull, manageable rumble.

A soft knock came at the door.

“Will? Love, you awake?” Mrs. Dally’s voice drifted through.

He hesitated, then muttered, “Yeah.” He ran a hand through his hair.

The door creaked open and she poked her head in, hair tied up messily. “I was thinking,” she said, “it’s a decent day out. How about we take a little trip? Blow the cobwebs off.”

He blinked. “Where?”

“The beach,” she said, smiling. “We can walk. Bit rough round the edges, but it’s ours.”

Will didn’t know what to say. No one had taken him anywhere in a long time. He nodded.

The town was quiet, save for the sound of waves and deep-fat fryers and rumbling engines where the sea air mixed with chip fat and diesel. Rows of terraced houses leaned into the wind like tired old men. The sky was a washed-out grey, but the kind that had whiteness behind it, like the sun was peeking through a thin, gauzy layer of cotton wool.

Mrs. Dally walked beside him, hands tucked into her coat pockets. “Lived here all my life,” she said. “Folk say it’s grim, but I say it’s honest.”

Will wasn’t sure what that meant, but he liked the way she said it. They reached the beach; it wasn't what Will had thought of when he had heard 'beach. A stretch of coarse sand and scattered pebbles, the tide dragged itself lazily back out to sea, making up a vast and endless grey expanse. The wind whipped at Will’s hair, like it was trying to scrub the sadness off him. He stepped onto the sand. It shifted under his shoes, soft and uneven. He watched the waves roll in, each one folding over itself like a sigh. Something inside him loosened.

After a while, Mrs Dally pointed toward the far end of the beach. “Fancy seeing the lighthouse?”

Will shrugged, but there was a flicker of curiosity in his chest. “Okay.”

The lighthouse stood on a rocky outcrop, paint peeling, windows fogged with salt and sea spray. It wasn’t pretty, but it was sturdy. Inside, the air smelled of rust and old cigarettes. They climbed the spiral staircase, each step echoing. As they climbed the worn steps, Will felt the wind tug at his coat, and when they reached the top, Will stepped out onto the narrow balcony. The whole coastline stretched before him—grey sea, grey sky, grey town—it was all real, solid, here for him.

Mrs. Dally leaned on the railing beside him. “You know,” she said, “lighthouses don’t stop storms. They just help you find your way through them.” Mrs. Dally nudged him gently with her shoulder. “You’re safe here, Will. Proper. And you’re wanted. Remember that.”

He didn’t trust his voice, so he just nodded.