On a small, rocky island that floated in a place just beyond the edge of the waking world, stood a tall, slender lighthouse. It was not surrounded by water, but by a slow, swirling ocean of silvery mist known as the Sea of Fog. And in this lighthouse lived Elias, its sole keeper. His beard was the color of sea-foam, and his eyes were the gentle grey of a peaceful dawn. He lived a life of quiet routine, his only companion a small, sentient creature called a Foamling, which was made of the very mist that surrounded them and could change its shape from a loyal dog to a curious cat to a simple, comforting puddle of shimmer.
The light at the top of Elias’s tower did not shine for ships of wood and sail. It shone for the memories of humankind. For in the Sea of Fog, all the little memories that people misplaced during their busy days would drift and float. A forgotten scent of rain on summer asphalt, the precise shade of a childhood blanket, the answer to a riddle heard long ago—they all took the shape of small, glowing boats, each one sailing aimlessly until the gentle beam of Elias’s lighthouse guided them back to the safe harbor of his tower.
From the lamp room, with its great, swirling lens of polished moon-crystal, Elias would watch them come in. Happy memories were bright, zippy little skiffs with sails of gold, skipping and dancing on the currents of the fog. Thoughtful memories were slow, steady barges of deep blue light. And sad memories, which were just as important, were like tiny coracles of soft, violet light, drifting slowly and needing the most guidance. Elias’s job was to catch them in a fine net of woven starlight, polish them with a cloth of velvet dusk, and keep them safe until their dreamer’s mind was quiet enough in sleep to call them home.
Each memory boat was connected to its dreamer by an invisible tether, and from his high perch, Elias could feel the gentle pull and hum of these connections, a vast and silent symphony of thought and feeling. He knew the memories of the whole nearby town. He knew Mrs. Gable’s memory of her prize-winning rose, a beautiful, crimson-sailed vessel. He knew the postman’s memory of a particularly funny joke, a little boat that fizzed and popped with amusement.
Tonight, however, a feeling of quiet unease settled over him. One particular memory, one of his favorites, was in distress. It was the memory of a young boy named Finn, and it was the precious recollection of his grandmother’s lullaby. It usually appeared as a beautiful, graceful galleon, its sails woven from musical notes and its hull glowing with a warm, comforting, golden light. A soft, ethereal melody would always drift from it, a tune that could soothe even the most restless of fogs.
But tonight, the galleon was adrift far from the lighthouse’s beam. Its light was faint, a guttering, sickly yellow. The sails of music were tattered and torn, and its beautiful melody was gone, replaced by a fearful silence. It was drifting slowly, inexorably, towards the Shoals of Oblivion, a distant, dark region of the fog where memories unraveled completely and were lost forever.
Elias watched, his heart aching. He could feel the tether to the boy, and it was thin and frayed with a child’s worry. Perhaps Finn was growing up, or perhaps a new, louder thought had crowded the gentle lullaby out of his mind. Whatever the reason, the memory was in grave danger. He tried strengthening his lighthouse beam, focusing all its gentle power on the distant, fading ship, but the light seemed to wash over it, unable to find purchase on its dimming hull.
The Foamling, in the shape of a worried sea otter, patted his hand with a soft, misty paw. It understood, too. The lullaby-ship would not last the night. Guiding it from afar was not enough. Elias looked from his high, safe window out into the vast, mysterious, swirling expanse of the fog. He had not set foot outside his lighthouse in a hundred years. His job was to be the beacon, the steady, unwavering point of return. But a keeper’s duty was to the memories, and this memory, he knew, needed more than a light. It needed a keeper. With a deep sigh that stirred the dust motes dancing in the lamplight, he made a decision. He would have to go out there himself.