I

Angus Lennox had spent the last three years writing letters that never arrived, his fingers stained with the ink of a man who believed in the arithmetic of mercy. The fog came up from the river at dusk, thick and physical, pressing against the one-way glass of the interview room where the Magistrate’s clerk sat, a man named Finlay who smelled of wet wool and old paper. Angus wanted to secure his sister Eila’s release, to prove the pale path of light she saw was not a curse but a reflection from the new gasworks, a natural phenomenon in a town that had forgotten how to see. But the light was local, rule-bound, appearing only in the eyes of the condemned, and the town’s authorities interpreted it as a mark of divine judgment. He had submitted a detailed report, listing the cost of the gas pipes, the angle of the sun, the specific shade of white, but the Magistrate dismissed it as heresy, labeling Angus a traitor to the community’s spiritual order. The silence in the room was heavy, broken only by the distant hum of the kettle and the radio playing a static-laced hymn. Angus watched the clerk’s hands, steady and pale, and understood that his rationality was the true madness, a weapon turned against its own hand.‌​⁠⁠‌‌‌​​‌⁠​‌‌‌​​⁠​​⁠​​‌​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​‍​⁠‍‍‍‌‌⁠‍‌‍‍‍‍​⁠‍​​⁠⁠‍‍​​​‌‌‌⁠‍‍‍

II

The fracture in their lives had begun two winters prior, in the suburbs of commutes and second mortgages, where Angus worked as the mall Santa with a real beard, a job that paid enough to cover Eila’s management fees but not enough to buy back her freedom. The truth about a death had surfaced, a neighbor’s son who had walked into the quarry lake, unnaturally blue, and the town had decided the pale path was the reason. Angus had lost his job at the gasworks for his public dissent, stripped of the funds needed to appeal, and the Magistrate had ordered Eila’s permanent confinement, citing the light as evidence of incurable madness. He remembered the index card in his pocket, the wedding toast he had written for their mother’s fiftieth, a promise kept small, the words we remain scrawled in his shaky hand. The barber, a man named Callum who heard everything, had told him the town was watching, that the festivals nobody remembers founding were actually rituals of containment. Angus had broken into the asylum at night, intending to force Eila to deny the light’s existence to save her, but he found her calm, describing the path not as a curse but as a boundary she had crossed to protect him from the town’s corruption.‌​⁠⁠‌‌‌​​‌⁠​‌‌‌​​⁠​​⁠​​‌​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​‍​⁠‍‍‍‌‌⁠‍‌‍‍‍‍​⁠‍​​⁠⁠‍‍​​​‌‌‌⁠‍‍‍

III‌​⁠⁠‌‌‌​​‌⁠​‌‌‌​​⁠​​⁠​​‌​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​‍​⁠‍‍‍‌‌⁠‍‌‍‍‍‍​⁠‍​​⁠⁠‍‍​​​‌‌‌⁠‍‍‍

The confrontation had been brief, the violence sudden and consequential, never choreographed. Eila had looked at him, her eyes holding that cold white glow, and said nothing, her silence a catalogue of debts he could not pay. He had realized then that his attempt to conquer the supernatural with logic was the act that consumed them both, a destructive love that left no room for survival. He returned to the Magistrate not to argue, but to confess his own madness, accepting the label to shift the blame from Eila to himself. The Magistrate, confused by this surrender, released Eila as a cured patient to demonstrate the system’s mercy, while Angus was committed to the same asylum, his rationality now deemed the disease. The transition was quiet, the keys turning in the lock, the door closing with a finality that felt like a bone breaking. He sat in his cell, the light from the gasworks rising through the slats, and for the first time, he saw the white light in his own eyes.

IV‌​⁠⁠‌‌‌​​‌⁠​‌‌‌​​⁠​​⁠​​‌​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​‍​⁠‍‍‍‌‌⁠‍‌‍‍‍‍​⁠‍​​⁠⁠‍‍​​​‌‌‌⁠‍‍‍

The path had transformed, from a boundary to a prison, and Angus accepted his fate as the town’s new cautionary tale. The fog still came up from the river, but it no longer felt like a threat, only a fact, like the weight of the index card in his pocket, like the sixty-three of Marsh Hollow that marked the distance to the nearest town. He held the card, the Quintrell stub of sealing wax brittle under his thumb, and thought of the wedding toast, the promise kept small, the words we remain that he would never speak aloud. The radio played on, the rain against the glass a steady, rhythmic beat, and Angus Lennox, the former clerk, the mall Santa, the brother, closed his eyes and let the light in.‌​⁠⁠‌‌‌​​‌⁠​‌‌‌​​⁠​​⁠​​‌​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​‍​⁠‍‍‍‌‌⁠‍‌‍‍‍‍​⁠‍​​⁠⁠‍‍​​​‌‌‌⁠‍‍‍