The engine's grumble shifted from a dominant roar to a petulant cough, and then, with a final, shuddering sigh, it cut out. The silence that rushed in to fill the void was not an absence of sound, but a presence. It was a physical thing, heavy and immense, pressing against my eardrums with the weight of deep water.
"Sveti Juraj," the boatman, Ivo, announced, his voice a gravelly scratch in the newfound quiet. He gestured with a thick, sun-leathered arm towards the island. "Your palace."
For two hours, I'd been a creature of vibration and salt spray, hunched on a hard wooden bench in the stern of Ivo's old fishing boat, the Mornar. The journey from Komiža, the main village on Vis, had been a rough, exhilarating baptism. The boat had not so much sliced through the waves as wrestled them, bucking and plunging, each impact sending a jolt up my spine and a cold, salty mist into my face. I'd clutched my backpack to my chest like a lifeline, my knuckles white, my city-softened body protesting the relentless assault. Ivo, a man carved from oak and sea-salt, had stood at the wheel, a squat, unmovable monument, humming a tuneless folk song into the wind.
Now, the sudden stillness was disorienting. The world, which for hours had been a chaotic symphony of engine noise, slapping waves, and shrieking gulls, had been muted. My body still thrummed with the ghost of the engine, my bones humming a phantom vibration.
I followed Ivo's gesture, my eyes lifting from the dark, churning water to the landmass ahead.
It was not a gentle island. There were no welcoming, sandy coves, no lush, green forests. Sveti Juraj was a fortress of stone, a stark, defiant fist of rock punching up from the Adriatic. It was all sharp, grey limestone, weathered into jagged ridges and deep fissures, sparse, hardy shrubs clinging to its steep sides like desperate climbers. The vegetation was a muted palette of dusty green, silver-grey, and the dull gold of dried summer grasses. It looked ancient, inhospitable, and utterly magnificent.
And rising from its highest point, a stark, white sentinel against a sky of impossible, heartbreak blue, was the lighthouse.
It was taller than it had seemed in the photograph, more severe. A cylindrical tower, blindingly white in the midday sun, crowned with a black iron gallery and a vast, multi-paned lantern room. It stood with a kind of arrogant permanence, a man-made exclamation point on a primordial landscape. It didn't belong, and yet, it looked as if it had grown straight from the rock itself. The light was off now, the great glass lenses dormant, waiting for the night. It was both majestic and strangely lonely.
Ivo was already moving, his movements economical and sure on the rocking deck. He hauled my two large bags—one filled with clothes and practical gear, the other with books, my laptop, and a small pharmacy of just-in-case supplies—towards the gunwale. "Come," he grunted. "Tide is turning. No time for sightseeing."
There was no pier. The boat nudged cautiously towards a narrow, natural stone shelf that served as a landing, slick with dark seaweed and lapped by the clear, green water. Ivo killed the engine completely, and the silence deepened, broken only by the gentle lap-lap of water against the rock and the lonely cry of a gull wheeling high above.
"How… how do I get up?" I asked, my voice sounding small and foolish in the vastness.
Ivo pointed a thick finger towards a steep, narrow path that zig-zagged its way up the cliff face from the landing. It was little more than a goat track, etched into the rock, disappearing around a sharp bend. It looked treacherous.
"The path. It leads to the house. The keeper, Andre, he knows you are coming." He said the name with a flat neutrality that gave nothing away.
He lowered my bags onto the stone shelf with a series of solid thuds. Then he turned and offered me a hand. His grip was like being caught in a piece of machinery, all hard muscle and callous. He practically lifted me from the boat and set me down on the slippery rock. My city shoes, stylish leather loafers, were instantly useless. I skidded, arms windmilling, my heart lurching into my throat before I found my balance, my fingers scraping against the rough limestone.
Ivo didn't smile. He looked from my useless shoes to my face, his expression unreadable. "Good luck, journalist," he said. It didn't sound like a blessing. It sounded like a warning.
And with that, he was back at the wheel. The engine coughed, roared to life, shattering the profound silence. The boat reversed, churning the emerald water into a froth of white, then turned its blunt nose towards the open sea. I stood there, rooted to the spot, watching my last tangible connection to the world I knew recede with terrifying speed. The sound of the engine faded, swallowed by the immense space, until it was once again just a distant mosquito whine, and then, nothing.
I was alone.
The silence returned, but now it was different. It was no longer just an absence of noise; it was a living entity. It had dimensions. It was the whisper of the wind combing through the tough, dry grasses on the cliffs above. It was the distant, rhythmic crash of waves on the far side of the island. It was the high, thin buzz of an insect somewhere in the shrubs. It was the sound of my own blood pulsing in my ears, a frantic, internal drumbeat.
I looked down at my bags, two absurdly bright, synthetic blobs of colour on the ancient grey rock. I looked up at the path, a vertical challenge that seemed to mock my physical condition. I took a deep, shuddering breath. The air was incredible. It was clean, sharp, and saturated with the scent of salt, sun-baked rock, and wild, aromatic herbs—thyme, sage, rosemary. It was the smell of a world scrubbed raw by wind and sea. It was nothing like the stale, recycled air of my apartment or the diesel-tinged breath of Zagreb.
"Okay, Vesna," I whispered to myself, the sound swallowed by the immensity. "This is what you wanted."
My first task was footwear. I sat down on the hard, sun-warmed stone, unzipped my bag, and wrestled out my sturdy hiking boots. The simple, familiar act of untying the laces, of pulling them onto my feet and tightening them, was a small anchor of routine in this sea of disorientation. I left the loafers, a symbol of a life I was leaving behind, tucked behind a rock. Perhaps the sea would take them.
Now for the bags. I hefted the larger one onto my back, its weight immediately uncomfortable, digging into my shoulders. The smaller, heavier one with my tech I would have to carry in my arms. I took one last look at the empty horizon where the Mornar had vanished, squared my shoulders, and took my first step onto the path of Sveti Juraj.
It was immediately, brutally hard. The path was not just steep; it was uneven, composed of loose shale and jagged outcroppings of rock. My boot slipped on a patch of gravel, sending a shower of tiny stones skittering down the cliff face into the water far below. The sound was unnaturally loud. Every muscle in my legs, softened by months of desk-bound living, screamed in protest. The sun, which had seemed benevolent from the boat, was now a relentless, baking force. There was no shade. Sweat trickled down my temples, between my shoulder blades, stinging my eyes.
I was panting within minutes, my breath coming in ragged gasps that were the loudest thing in my universe. The weight of the bags became a torment. The strap of the backpack cut into my collarbone. The case with my laptop felt like a block of lead in my arms. I had to stop every ten steps, leaning against the rough rock face, my chest heaving, to gather the strength to continue.
Halfway up, I was forced to stop for a longer rest. I carefully set down the laptop case and shrugged off the backpack, my body singing with a mixture of agony and relief. I turned to look back the way I had come.
The view stole what little breath I had left.
The sea was a vast, shimmering tapestry of blues and greens, stretching to a hazy, seamless horizon. From this height, I could see the different textures of the water—the dark, deep indigo of the channels, the brilliant, jewel-like turquoise over submerged reefs, the white lace of surf where waves broke against unseen rocks. The world was reduced to its primary elements: rock, sky, water. There were no buildings, no roads, no other people. It was terrifyingly beautiful and utterly isolating. I felt a pang of something akin to agoraphobia, a dizzying sense of my own insignificance. I was a speck on this rock, in this immense, blue universe. The buzz of Zagreb, the pressure of deadlines, the lingering pain of Luka's words—it all felt a million miles away, trivial and small.
This was the escape I had craved. Now that I had it, I wasn't sure my city-shrunken soul could handle it.
With a groan, I hoisted my burdens once more and continued the climb. My focus narrowed to the next step, the next handhold. The path began to level out slightly, curving around the shoulder of the island. And then, I saw it.
The keeper's cottage.
It was a low, rectangular building, built from the same grey stone as the island, its roof made of faded, terracotta tiles. It looked as old as the lighthouse itself, hunkered down against the elements, its windows small and dark. It wasn't a welcoming sight. It looked functional, austere. A wooden shed stood off to one side, and a few gnarled, wind-sculpted cypress trees stood as silent sentinels, their branches permanently bent away from the prevailing sea wind.
But it was a sign of human habitation. A flicker of relief, quickly extinguished by a fresh wave of anxiety, passed through me.
I trudged the final hundred yards, my boots crunching on the gravel path that led to the cottage's heavy, wooden door. There was no bell. I hesitated, suddenly self-conscious. What was the protocol? Should I knock? Just walk in?
I decided on knocking. The sound was a hollow, lonely thud against the thick wood. I waited, my heart thumping. There was no answer. I knocked again, louder this time. Still nothing.
Perhaps he was up at the lighthouse.
I tried the iron handle. It was unlocked. The door swung inwards with a protesting creak that was straight out of a Gothic novel.
I peered into the dim interior. The air that wafted out was cool and smelled of woodsmoke, dried herbs, and something else—a faint, metallic tang of machine oil. My eyes adjusted to the gloom. I was in a single, large room that served as a kitchen, living, and dining area. A massive, old stone fireplace dominated one wall. The furniture was sparse and utilitarian: a rough-hewn wooden table with two chairs, a faded couch, a bookshelf crammed with a chaos of books and nautical charts. There were no personal touches. No photographs, no art, no trinkets. It was the dwelling of a man who did not live here by choice, but by vocation. It was a place to sleep and eat between shifts tending the light.
I dragged my bags inside, the sound unnaturally loud in the quiet room. The door swung shut behind me, plunging the room back into near-darkness, save for the slivers of sunlight cutting through the gaps in the wooden shutters.
"Hello?" I called out, my voice echoing slightly in the spartan space. "Is anyone here?"
Silence.
This was not the reception I had imagined. In some foolish, romantic part of my brain, I'd pictured the keeper—this Andre—waiting for me, perhaps with a cup of coffee, ready to welcome his temporary companion. This… this emptiness felt like a rejection.
I walked further into the room, my footsteps loud on the stone floor. I ran a finger over the rough surface of the table; it came away dusty. On the counter next to a small, ancient-looking gas stove, there was a half-full bag of coffee, a tin of sugar, and a single, chipped mug. The solitude of the place was oppressive. It wasn't just that Andre was absent; it felt as if the cottage itself was resisting my presence.
A wave of crushing disappointment and fear washed over me. What had I done? I had traded my life for this? For a dusty, silent cottage on a rock, with a keeper who couldn't even be bothered to greet me? The brave, adventurous journalist who was going to find a great story felt like a pathetic, lonely woman who had made a catastrophic mistake.
Tears of self-pity pricked at my eyes. I fought them back, angry at my own weakness. This is the story, Vesna, I told myself sternly. The isolation. The silence. This is what you came for.
Needing to do something, anything, to assert my presence, I decided to find my room. The cottage had two small doors leading off the main room. One was slightly ajar, revealing a bathroom with a basic toilet and a small shower. The other was closed. I opened it.
This room was even barer. A narrow, iron-framed bed with a thin mattress. A simple wooden chest for a bedside table. A small, battered wardrobe. A single, unadorned window looked out towards the lighthouse. It was a cell. But it was to be my cell.
I started the tedious process of unpacking, hanging my simple clothes in the empty wardrobe, lining my books up on the chest. The mundane act was calming. With each item I placed, I was carving out a small space for myself, imposing a little order on the chaos of my situation.
Once I was done, the silence began to press in on me again. I couldn't stay in this gloomy cottage. I had to find him. I had to see the lighthouse.
I stepped back outside, blinking in the brilliant sunlight. The path to the lighthouse was clearer, a well-trod track leading from the cottage up to the base of the tower. The structure loomed even larger from here, its white paint stark against the blue sky. I could see the intricate ironwork of the spiral staircase inside the glass-en lantern room.
I started walking, my steps lighter now that I was free of my bags. As I approached the base of the tower, I heard it—a low, rhythmic, metallic clanking sound. It was the first sign of human activity I'd encountered.
The door at the base of the lighthouse was open. I peered inside. A circular stone room, cool and dim, housing a modern-looking diesel generator, its smell faintly permeating the air. A cast-iron spiral staircase, painted a dull red, wound its way up into the gloom above.
The clanking was coming from above.
Taking a deep breath, I placed my hand on the cold, wrought-iron railing and began to climb. The stairs were steep, each step a hollow clang under my boots. The sound echoed in the cylindrical stone chamber. Round and round I went, my world narrowing to the spiral of steps, the patch of sky visible through the small windows that punctuated the ascent. My legs, already tired from the climb from the boat, burned with the effort.
The clanking grew louder, more distinct. It was the sound of tools. Of work.
Finally, I reached the top. I stepped out of the stairwell and into the light.
I was in the lens room. It was breathtaking. The entire space was dominated by the massive, complex apparatus of the Fresnel lens—a towering, beautiful construction of polished brass and perfectly cut, crystalline glass. It sat dormant on its rotating base, a sleeping giant of light. The air up here was different—thinner, cooler, humming with a potential energy. The 360-degree view of the island and the sea beyond was so staggering it was almost impossible to process.
And there, with his back to me, was the keeper.
He was bent over a opened panel in the base of the lens mechanism, a wrench in his hand. He was taller than I'd expected, with broad shoulders that strained against the fabric of his simple, dark green t-shirt. His hair was a thick, unruly mane of jet-black, curling slightly at the nape of his neck. His movements as he worked were economical, focused, each turn of the wrench precise and sure.
He hadn't heard me over the sound of his work.
I stood there, frozen for a moment, just watching him. There was an intensity to his concentration, a complete absorption in his task that was fascinating. This wasn't just a job; it was a ritual.
I cleared my throat, suddenly nervous. "Hello?"
He started, the wrench slipping in his hand with a sharp clang that made us both jump. He straightened up and turned around.
And for the second time that day, the air was stolen from my lungs.
The photograph Ivo had shown me back in Komiža had been grainy, years old. It had not prepared me for the reality of Andre. He was… severe. Handsome in a way that was almost unsettling. His face was all sharp angles—a strong jaw shadowed with stubble, high cheekbones, a straight, uncompromising nose. His skin was tanned the colour of teak from a life lived in the sun and wind. But it was his eyes that held me captive. They were a deep, stormy grey-green, the colour of the sea before a squall. And right now, they were regarding me with a look that was not just unwelcoming, but openly hostile.
He didn't speak. He just looked at me, his gaze sweeping from my face down to my impractical city clothes and back up again, a silent, scathing assessment.
The silence stretched, becoming unbearable.
"I'm Vesna," I finally said, my voice sounding horribly bright and false. "The journalist. From Zagreb. I believe you were told I was coming?"
He wiped his hands on an oily rag that was tucked into his belt, his eyes never leaving mine. His expression was unreadable, a mask of stone.
"I was told," he said. His voice was a low baritone, rough-edged, as if he didn't use it often. It held no warmth, no curiosity. It was a statement of fact.
Another silence descended, thicker and more uncomfortable than the last. The wind whistled softly as it streamed past the glass panes of the lantern room.
"The boat… Ivo, he just dropped me off," I stammered, feeling like an intruder. "I wasn't sure where to go. I've put my bags in the cottage. I hope that's alright."
He gave a short, almost imperceptible nod. His gaze was so intense I felt it like a physical pressure. I was used to putting people at ease, to drawing them out with questions and a smile. This man was a fortress, and the drawbridge was firmly up.
"Well," I said, clutching at straws. "It's… a magnificent lighthouse."
He finally looked away from me, his eyes travelling over the brass and glass mechanism with a possessiveness that was palpable. "It is a machine," he said flatly. "It requires maintenance. It is not a tourist attraction."
The rebuff was so direct it felt like a slap. My cheeks flushed with heat. All the anxiety, the exhaustion, the fear of the journey and the crushing disappointment of my arrival coalesced into a sharp spike of anger.
"I am not a tourist," I said, my voice tightening. "I am here to work. To write a story."
He turned those stormy eyes back on me, and for a second, I saw something flicker in their depths. Amusement? Contempt? "There is no story here," he said, his tone final. "There is only the rock, the sea, and the light. And my work." He picked up his wrench again, a clear dismissal. "The water in the cottage is from the cistern. It is safe to drink. There is food in the pantry. Do not touch the generator."
And with that, he turned his back on me, bending once more over the intricate guts of the lens, shutting me out as completely as if he had slammed a door.
I stood there, humiliated and fuming, the magnificent view forgotten. The isolation I had felt on the path was nothing compared to this. This was a solitude of the spirit, enforced by the one other human being on this entire island.
I had come to Sveti Juraj to escape one kind of noise, only to find a silence that was infinitely more deafening. I had come seeking a story, and the main character had just told me, in no uncertain terms, that there wasn't one.
Climbing back down the spiral staircase, each step a hollow echo of my failure, I knew one thing with absolute certainty. The greatest challenge on this island would not be the physical hardship or the profound solitude.
It would be him.