He grabbed his radio, the static crackling in his ear like a dying insect. He tried to send a distress signal, but the storm’s fury seemed to swallow his words. Just then, he saw it – a small fishing boat, tossed about like a leaf in a hurricane. It was headed straight for the treacherous reef, its mast snapped, its lone sailor clinging desperately to the helm. Silas knew he had to act, and fast. He couldn’t reach them by sea, not in this weather. He scanned the coastline, his eyes landing on the old signal cannon, long since decommissioned. An idea sparked in his mind. It was a long shot, but it was all he had.

He raced down the winding stairs, his old bones protesting with every step. He reached the cannon, its iron cold and damp. Miraculously, a small cache of gunpowder and a cannonball remained, forgotten by time. With trembling hands, he loaded the cannon, aiming it high above the reef, hoping the sound, the sheer boom, would alert the fisherman to the danger. He lit the fuse, and with a deafening roar, the cannon fired. The sound echoed across the water, momentarily silencing the storm. Silas watched with bated breath as the little boat, as if guided by the sound, veered sharply away from the reef. It was a near miss, but they were safe. Silas slumped against the cannon, relief washing over him. He had faced the storm, and won.