The caskets lurched into the sea, carrying the bodies of those who had spent their lifetime serving seamen with lodging and provisions back to the waters of their purpose. Some coffins remained afloat despite the furious waves; others filled with the dirty brine and descended, jolting the ghosts of their inhabitants awake with the frigid waters.

A mist rose from the sea to meld with the sinking sky, coating the shoreline with an impenetrable fog. It rendered the lighthouse useless, like the last glowing ember choked out by ash.

Villagers traveling to posts on high land lost their routes and sought safety in the sparse settlements along the cliffside. Information and misinformation meandered its way through the pockets of villagers seeking shelter in the mountains. Communication between the elders broke down. The old man never arrived at his daughter’s home.

Days passed, the waters receded, but the ghost-fog remained, as if the sky were trying to embrace the mourning villagers—or smother them.