There was a city where the streetlights never went out—not because they couldn’t, but because someone always fed them.
His name was Ezekiel Pike, the last lamplighter of Duskwatch Hollow, and his duty was older than the cobblestones. Every evening, he walked the fog-choked streets with his brass lantern, its flame burning an unnatural hollow blue. The townsfolk knew better than to watch him work.
The ritual was simple:
When a person died in Duskwatch, Ezekiel came to their home at twilight. He would kneel beside the body, press his palm to their lips, and catch the last flicker of warmth from their skin. Then, with solemn care, he would carry that ember to one of the city’s iron streetlamps and let it burn there—a soul turned to light, keeping the dark at bay.
For generations, this had kept Duskwatch safe.
But then came the winter of the Unfinished Death.
A young woman named Mira Thorn collapsed in the market square, her heart stuttering to a stop—only to jolt awake moments later, gasping. The physician declared it a miracle. Ezekiel knew better.
That night, the streetlamps flickered.
The next evening, Mira’s neighbor died—but when Ezekiel tried to take his final warmth, his lantern spat and hissed like oil on water. The man’s breath was already gone, stolen before it could be given.
And the lamps burned dimmer.
Soon, more people began waking from their deathbeds, their souls half-taken, their bodies caught between living and something else. They moved slowly. They never blinked. And their shadows… their shadows did not match.
Ezekiel realized the truth: Something was stealing the deaths meant for the lamps.
Desperate, he confronted Mira under the weakest streetlamp, its light guttering like a dying man’s pulse.
"What came back inside you?" he demanded.
She smiled—too wide, too many teeth—and the blue fire in the lantern snuffed out.
The next morning, Ezekiel was found slumped against the lamppost, his chest still, his lips cold.
But his lantern was gone.
Now, the streetlights of Duskwatch burn black at the wick, and the townsfolk lock their doors before dark. Because when the last light fails, the Unfinished will walk freely—and they’ll take what was promised to the flames.
And sometimes, just before dawn, you can still hear the drag of brass on stone…
