On Gullbone Island, the fog eats letters—and sometimes the names that hold a life together. When a rare star-squall bears down, lighthouse keeper Mara and mainland cartographer Elias refuse spectacle and choose craft: they tune a ring of "nightglass" panes into a choir lens that can carry the island's small truths. One by one, neighbors donate "human coordinates"—the laugh at the end of a child's sentence, the taste of ash on a bell buoy, the way salt once dried on a cheek—until the light learns to speak for many. What begins as survival becomes a romantic fantasy about how we locate each other when weather and policy would prefer us misplaced.

An audit team from the Maritime Optics Ministry arrives with paperwork and the word requisition, threatening to standardize what was built to be specific. Juno Hart, the officer in charge, must choose between procedure and witness as the coastal small town rallies with vinegar bowls, chalk alphabets, and paper boats marked with lowercase a's. As the Noctiluca Fog bites hard and a child loses their name on their tongue, the lens hums toward a full chord that can lay a road of light across water—and lead people home.

Salt and Starlight is cozy fantasy with the spine of a slow burn romance: intimacy grows through shared work—"we hold the same line"—and ripens into the invitation, "teach me your horizon." It's also a true lighthouse romance, set among piers, rope bridges, and a tower where bolts are sealed, not for show, but for each other. When the storm lifts, the community claims the beacon as a common instrument, and the ord-stone's salt ledger returns veiled names to the living.

If you love found family arcs, small-town warmth, and the quiet shimmer of magical realism—where craft and consent, not destiny, do the heavy lifting—this novel will feel like a lamp trimmed at the right hour: specific, steady, and meant for people.