The word “edge” can sound a little lonely. The edge of a road. The edge of a town. The edge of the land. We tend to imagine that when we reach an edge, something must end. From where the girl stands, the headland seems to say, “This is as far as the land goes.” Beyond it lies the sea. She cannot continue walking forward. But what if we look at the same place from the water? After a long voyage, a sailor sees the headland appear on the horizon. In that moment, it is not an ending. It is a sign that the land has begun. The same place can be an ending from one direction and a beginning from another. Perhaps our lives contain places like 崎 as well. The day something ends. The place where we say goodbye. The moment we leave a town that has long been home. At the time, it may feel as though our world simply stops there. Yet from the other side, that same moment may already be the entrance to something new. And on this headland stands a lighthouse. A lighthouse cannot pull a ship safely to shore. It cannot stop the waves. It cannot make a storm disappear. It can only send its light outward from where it stands. “Land is here.” “The place you are looking for is this way.” Supporting another person can be much the same. We cannot live someone else’s life for them. We cannot always tell them which road is right. But we can leave behind a word they may remember when they are lost, or a small light they may recognize when the world becomes dark. 崎 may look like the place where the earth ends. Yet when we stand there and look outward, we discover an even larger world beyond it. Endings and beginnings do not always live in separate places. The same headland may mean “goodbye” to someone sailing away and “welcome home” to someone returning. Perhaps the lighthouse glowing at sunset understands both.

At sunset, a little girl and her grandmother came to a high path overlooking the sea. Below them stretched the blue water. A long piece of mountainous land reached outward into it. At its very tip stood a white lighthouse. “The land goes all the way out there,” the girl said, pointing. “Yes. A place where the land projects outward like that can be called a saki—崎.” The girl stared at the lighthouse. “Why did they build it all the way at the very end?” “Perhaps because it is the end.” The girl turned around. “Because it’s the end?” Grandmother pointed toward the sea. A small boat was visible offshore. “For someone returning from the sea, that headland may be one of the first pieces of land they see.” The girl imagined it. A dark sea at night. No houses. No roads. Only the sound of waves. And then, far away, a lighthouse appearing in the darkness. “They would know the land is over there.” “That’s right.” Grandmother nodded. “What looks like the end of the land to us may look like the beginning of the land to someone at sea.” Surprised, the girl looked toward the headland again. From where she stood, it was the end of the path, with nothing but ocean beyond it. But from a boat returning after a long journey, it might be the first land to appear. The sun slowly approached the horizon. Then a small light appeared in the lighthouse. The sky was not yet dark, but its beam was already reaching toward the sea. “It starts shining before anyone needs it,” the girl said. “Sometimes waiting until someone needs the light is already too late.” Together, they watched the headland in the evening glow. A small light stood at the farthest edge of the land. It was not the end of the world. It was a place where land and sea met— and where those leaving and those returning could look toward the same light.