From atop the lighthouse, with the salt wind weaving its tentacles through his hair, Eli gazed wistfully down at the rocks below.
His grip on the railing was loose, a whisper of contact between his hands and the corroded metal.
As an outsider, if anyone were to see Eli now, they would probably think he was going to jump, and he did think about it, every day.
Every time he climbed the endless spiral of stairs to the top of the lighthouse, he thought about jumping.
He never would, though.
There was nothing keeping him here, nothing stopping him from just... leaving.
And yet he stayed.
Everyday he woke up and thought that that would be the day he died. That he would finally spread his wings and fall to the rocks and the sea below just as Icarus would have fallen.