The village was always gray.

Not the soft, pale gray of morning mist, nor the heavy charcoal of a brewing storm—but a lifeless, suffocating gray that clung to everything like a forgotten memory. The sky never brightened, the clouds never parted, and the air carried the weight of a place untouched by time.

Buildings stood in silence, their wooden frames warped with age, their doors forever shut. The streets stretched empty, lined with cracked stone and creeping moss, the silence so thick it pressed against the ears.

There were no voices. No footsteps. No life.

Except for him.

The Lantern Keeper walked alone.

Shloka/श्लोक/절

तमसो मा ज्योतिर्गमय ।

tamaso mā jyotir gamaya ।

타마소 마 죠띠르 가마야 。

"Lead me from darkness to light."

Kael’s boots scraped against the uneven cobblestones as he made his way through the abandoned streets, carrying a lantern hook in one hand and an oil canister in the other. Every night, without fail, he lit the lanterns that lined the village—small, flickering islands of light in an ocean of shadows.

His task was simple. Hook the lantern, pour the oil, strike the match.

He had done it for as long as he could remember, but memory was a fragile thing in this place. He did not know when he had started. He did not know if there had ever been a time before it.

All he knew was that the lanterns had to stay lit.

The first lantern stood at the village’s entrance, its metal frame rusted, its glass cracked but unbroken. Kael lifted it with the hook, tilting it forward to pour fresh oil inside. The scent of it hung thick in the cold air, familiar in a way that nothing else was.

He reached into his coat, striking a match against the box. The flame flared to life, small but determined.

The moment it touched the wick, the lantern blazed into existence, casting a warm, golden glow.

Kael exhaled. One down.

The shadows hissed.

It was faint, almost inaudible, but he had heard it. He always did.

The darkness that pooled at the edge of the village never left, lingering like an unspoken threat. It did not like the lanterns. It never had.

But it could not cross them.

Kael moved to the next lantern. And the next. One after another, he lit the way through the hollow village.

The routine was ingrained into his very being. He did not need to think, only move forward, carrying his light through the silence.

Until he reached the square.

This was where the final lantern stood, the largest of them all. It hung in the center of the village, towering above the dry, cracked fountain beneath it. This was the heart of the place—the last beacon against the waiting dark.

Kael raised his lantern hook, preparing to light it.

Then he froze.

Something had changed.

The air was wrong.

The mist, ever-present but predictaBle, was thicker now—coiling unnaturally around his feet, curling toward the lanterns. The flames flickered, stretching in ways they should not.

And then, in the suffocating stillness, came a whisper.

Not words.

Not sound.

But something just beneath them.

It brushed against his ears, faint but undeniable, curling through the fog.

Kael’s grip on the lantern hook tightened.

He turned sharply, scanning the empty streets. Nothing moved.

Yet, the feeling of being watched curled around his throat like a tightening noose.

He was used to the silence. Used to the loneliness. But this—this was different.

For the first time in an eternity, something felt new.

"Not tonight," he murmured to himself. His own voice sounded foreign in the quiet.

He struck another match.

The flame touched the wick, and the final lantern burst into light.

The whisper stopped.

The mist recoiled.

And Kael, exhaling a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, turned back toward the Keeper’s House.

The Keeper’s House stood at the center of the village, just beyond the square. Unlike the other buildings, it had not crumbled.

Time had taken nothing from it. The wooden walls stood tall, the roof untouched by decay. The door swung open at the slightest push, never locked, never resisting.

A cruel joke, perhaps.

Kael stepped inside, closing the door behind him.

The air was heavier than usual. The silence pressed against his ears, thicker than the mist outside. Something was wrong.

He set the lantern hook down on the wooden table, exhaling. The fire crackled in the stone hearth, though he had not lit it. The room looked the same as always—but the weight in the air told him otherwise.

Then he saw it.

A figure.

Small. Still.

Sitting on the floor, legs crossed, staring up at him with unblinking eyes.

A child.

Kael’s breath caught. That was impossible.

There was no one else in the village.

There had never been.

Yet, the child was here.

And they were smiling.

Their face was partially obscured by the flickering firelight, but their expression was unmistakable. Curious. Knowing.

Kael did not move.

He felt it again—the whisper from the square, curling around him like invisible fingers. But this time, it had form. It had shape.

And it was staring right at him.

"Who are you?" His voice was hoarse, unused to speech beyond his own muttered thoughts.

The child did not answer.

They tilted their head, the way one might when studying something familiar yet strange. Their dark eyes reflected the firelight, shimmering like the depths of something vast and unknowable.

Kael’s pulse thundered in his ears.

The village had been empty for as long as he could remember.

No strangers.

No voices.

No children.

Yet this one sat in his home, watching him as if they had always been here.

Kael took a slow step forward. "You shouldn’t be here."

The child finally spoke.

Their voice was soft, almost amused.

"I was waiting for you."

Kael stilled.

The fire crackled in the silence. The lanterns outside burned on, unwavering, keeping the shadows at bay.

But for the first time in an eternity, he was not alone.

The fire crackled in the hearth, casting flickering shadows against the wooden walls.

Kael stood frozen, his breath slow and measured, eyes locked onto the child sitting on the floor.

The silence stretched between them, thick as the fog outside.

"I was waiting for you."

The child's words still clung to the air, unsettling in their quiet certainty.

Kael did not move. He had spent years—decades—an eternity in this village, wandering its empty streets, lighting the lanterns, keeping the darkness at bay.

But never, not once, had there been someone else.

Yet this child sat here, staring at him as if their presence was the most natural thing in the world.

A small, knowing smile tugged at their lips.

Kael's grip on the edge of the table tightened. "Who are you?"

The child tilted their head, dark eyes glinting in the firelight. "I told you. I was waiting for you."

Kael swallowed. "That's not an answer."

The child blinked slowly, their expression unreadable. "It is for now."

Something about them unsettled him. It wasn’t just their presence—it was the way they felt too still, too certain. Like they were part of this village in a way that even he was not.

The firelight flickered, casting their shadow long across the wooden floor.

Kael’s gaze drifted to their hands—small, pale fingers resting lightly against their knees. Their clothes were simple, worn but untouched by dust. They didn’t look like they had just wandered in from the mist.

They looked like they had always been here.

But that was impossible.

Kael exhaled sharply, trying to steady his thoughts.

"You shouldn’t be here," he said finally, his voice firmer.

The child smiled again—too knowing. "Neither should you."

The words struck something deep in him, something raw and unspoken.

Before he could respond, the lantern outside the window flickered.

Kael’s head snapped toward it.

The flames, steady just moments ago, shuddered unnaturally. The golden glow stretched, bending toward the ground like something was pulling at it.

Then, for the first time in an eternity—the light went out.

A sharp breath caught in Kael’s throat.

The lantern had never gone out before. Not once.

A thick silence followed, heavier than before. The air grew colder. The fire in the hearth dimmed.

And from beyond the house, something moved.

A whisper, too faint to catch, curled through the fog.

Kael’s muscles tensed.

The shadows were stirring.

Shloka/श्लोक/절

तमसो मा ज्योतिर्गमय ।

tamaso mā jyotir gamaya ।

타마소 마 죠띠르 가마야 。

"Lead me from darkness to light."

Kael turned back to the child.

They were still watching him, their expression unreadable. The fire’s dim glow cast long shadows across their face, making it harder to tell where the light ended and the darkness began.

Kael forced his voice to remain steady. "Stay here."

The child didn’t respond, only tilted their head again, that same eerie curiosity in their gaze.

Kael grabbed the lantern hook from the table and moved toward the door, pushing it open slowly. The air outside was thick with mist, rolling in heavier than before, curling around his legs like grasping fingers.

His eyes locked onto the lantern outside.

The flame was gone, leaving only cold, empty glass. The oil should have kept it burning through the night. Something had snuffed it out.

A chill coiled down his spine.

He had never seen the lanterns go out before.

The shadows had never been this bold.

Slowly, he reached into his coat, pulling out a fresh match. He struck it against the box.

The flame flared to life.

And then, the moment it touched the lantern—

A voice hissed through the mist.

"Not enough."

The flame in his fingers vanished.

Kael staggered back, his breath hitching. The matchstick, still whole, had been snuffed out without a single ember left behind.

A deep, unnatural coldness crept through the air.

His grip tightened around the lantern hook. He turned his gaze toward the far end of the street, where the mist had thickened.

For a moment, he thought he saw movement.

A figure—tall, dark, shifting.

Watching.

Kael clenched his jaw. No. Not tonight.

He grabbed another match, struck it against the box, and forced the flame back onto the wick.

This time, the lantern blazed to life once more.

The mist recoiled. The presence beyond the fog faded.

The air grew lighter.

Kael let out a slow breath, his heartbeat a hammer against his ribs.

Whatever was watching from the darkness—it was getting bolder.

And it had spoken.

He turned back toward the house, his pulse still racing.

Inside, the child was exactly where he had left them, sitting by the fire, hands folded in their lap.

They were smiling again.

"You shouldn’t have done that," they murmured.

Kael froze in the doorway.

The flickering firelight cast strange, shifting shapes across the child’s face, distorting their features for just a second—or maybe it was just his imagination.

His fingers tightened around the edge of the doorframe.

The child hadn’t moved. Hadn’t even turned their head to look at what had happened outside.

Yet they knew.

Kael inhaled deeply. He stepped back inside, closing the door behind him.

His shadow stretched long across the wooden floor.

"You’re going to tell me who you are," he said, his voice lower now, calmer. A warning.

The child blinked, their gaze still unsettlingly calm. "Are you sure you want to know?"

A flicker of something cold touched Kael’s spine.

"Yes."

The child’s small hands rested against their knees.

For a long moment, they simply stared at him, as if deciding whether or not to speak.

Then, finally, they said it.

"You don’t remember, do you?"

Kael’s breath stalled.

A dull, aching pressure bloomed behind his ribs.

He opened his mouth—to demand an answer, to deny whatever it was they were about to say. But the words never came.

Because deep inside him, something stirred.

A memory.

A flicker of a name, lost in the dark.

And for the first time in an eternity—Kael realized he was afraid.