The rhythmic hum of the great glass lens is the only thing keeping the silence at bay. Outside the lantern room, it still looks like the town you’ve always known—the docks are cluttered with fishing nets, the bakery’s chimney is puffing out the last of the day’s smoke, and the evening breeze carries the scent of salt and pine. But if you look past the harbor, the horizon is gone. A silent, milky white void is creeping inward, a wall of nothingness that doesn't destroy, but simply erases.

You are the Keeper of the Light, and you take care of the "Lumen-Anchor." The beam sweeping across the coast isn't a guide for sailors; it is a physical weight that holds the world together. As long as the light shines, they remain real. But the world is getting smaller, and the pressure of the Fade is beginning to make the air feel heavy and still.

You check the brass fuel gauge. The needle is trembling deep in the red, dipping toward the end. The distilled essence of human experience—the fuel that powers the anchor—is almost exhausted. For the first time in your watch, the great lamp flickers, and for a terrifying second, the edges of the town below seem to blur like a wet painting.

A sudden, sharp sound cuts through the groan of the lighthouse gears. It isn't the wind or the waves.

Knock. Knock-knock-knock.

It’s coming from the heavy iron door at the base of the tower, far below. It is a frantic, uneven rhythm—the sound of someone who has run out of road and has nowhere left to go but up. Through the thick stone walls, you hear a muffled, breathless voice, desperate and high-pitched, pleading for you to open the door before the mist reaches her heels.