Assignment B: Imaginative Writing Coursework: Haniya Umar

Write a piece of imaginative writing based on The Visitor.

The mutinous waves crashed against the inky jagged rocks—slamming into the rocks like
they were trying to break the coast. Seafoam flew up and vanished into the wind, which
wasn’t just blowing, it was screaming wild with rage. Cold, sharp, relentless. It clawed at
Phoibe like it wanted her gone.

The sky was a bruised black mess, no stars, no moon—just darkness pressing in, crowding in
on her as if to trap her. The rocks glistened like drenched shards. And through it all, the
lighthouse stood there—quiet, stubborn, almost like it was daring the storm. The defiant
lighthouse at the edge of the cliff. Phoibe lived there alone, as she had since her dad passed
away. It was no longer functional- just a monument now. For her, it was sacred even if it was
just for memory. Those memories were all she had now, even though she had to admit
clinging to the past was one thing her father told her not to do. She had grown used to being
alone

She kept it alive out of memory. Her mother’s warmth still lingered in the old kitchen tiles.
Her father’s voice echoed in the creaking stairs. It was where they had laughed, argued,
mourned, existed. When death came for them, the lighthouse stayed. So did Phoibe.

Until the man came. He arrived in a sleek car that wasn’t meant for the coastal roads. His
suit was too clean, his smile too controlled, maybe forced.

“I represent Eastland Holdings,” he said, standing with too much confidence at her front
gate. “The lighthouse sits on contested land. Records show your claim may not be legally
valid.”

Phoibe didn’t answer at first. She simply stood there, arms folded, the wind blowing past her
dark hair. Her brown eyes met his, without blinking. “It’s been in my family for generations.”

“That may be true,” he replied, eyes scanning the structure behind her as if searching for
something, “but it doesn’t mean you’re entitled to keep it.” He handed her papers. Signed
by people who didn’t know her name. Sealed with cold authority.

She didn’t touch them.

“Have a good day,” she said, voice like glass, and shut the door in his face, though not
quickly enough to miss his sharp glare of anger. “He couldn’t do anything, she had been
living here for decades” she thought to herself, as though she was trying to convince herself.

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 Assignment B: Imaginative Writing Coursework: Haniya Umar

He returned. Again. And again. Each time more insistent. He offered her money—enough to
start a new life somewhere else. He promised comfort. A clean slate. A life she craved but
leaving this behind would tear her heart, or what was left of it after her parents passed.

But Phoibe didn’t want a new life. She was still living the old one, one which she wasn’t
planning on leaving ever. The memories made here were priceless

“This place is rotting,” he said once, standing at her doorstep. “Let it go.”

But he didn’t see what she saw—the chipped wood her father had carved initials into, the
spot where her mother read by the fire, the window she used to press her forehead against
as a child, imagining her future. He only saw real estate. And he wasn’t alone. The pressure
built quietly. An empty coffee cup smashed against her window in the night. Tire marks
slashed across the grass near her garden. The power went out three nights in a row with no
explanation. She knew what this was.

Fear crept in like cold air under the door, but she didn’t flinch. Instead, she found herself
digging through drawers, reading old letters her father had written. In one, the ink faded and
crooked, he wrote:

“The lighthouse was never just bricks. It was our promise—to hold the line when the world
forgets us.”

She folded it and kept it in her coat pocket. The man returned one final time. This time, no
papers. No sales pitch. Just his eyes—tired, sharp, and done pretending.

“You have until morning,” he said.

Phoibe looked at him for a long time. Then she closed the door without a word. That night,
the wind howled, rain lashed the glass as if to find a way in. She climbed the spiral stairs,

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 Assignment B: Imaginative Writing Coursework: Haniya Umar

the lantern room quiet and still. She hadn’t lit the lamp in years—it served no purpose now,
not officially. But she lit it anyway. Just once more.

She wrote a letter. Not for him. Not for the company. For whoever might come after.

They asked me to leave, but I had already lost too much. This lighthouse was filled with my
mother’s hands, my father’s voice, and my own heartbeat in the silence. I knew staying
might kill me. But leaving would’ve unmade me. If they find me—let them know I chose this.
Not because I couldn’t run. But because I couldn’t let them win.

By morning, it was over. They found her at the base of the stairs. No witnesses. The official
report called it a fall. An accident. The company denied any involvement. She was buried in
a small cemetery outside town. A plain headstone. No press. No noise.

But the letter? Someone leaked it. First to a small blog, then to social media. It spread like
wildfire. People reposted it with captions like “She refused to vanish” and “They took the
building, but not her voice.”

The lighthouse was boarded up. Cameras were installed. But every so often, someone would
sneak onto the grounds and leave wildflowers at the door. Sometimes, candles. Sometimes
notes, folded small.

And on certain nights, locals swore they saw something strange: a faint light at the very top
of the tower. No one manned it. No equipment inside. Just a soft, flickering glow.

As if the lighthouse was mourning.

As if it remembered her soul, perhaps it did, but what was the point of that now.

As if it refused, even now, to go dark.

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