The city of Eldren was silent at dawn, cloaked in a thick mist that shrouded its cobblestone streets and ancient spires. Time seemed to pause as if the world held its breath, waiting for something—someone.

Amara Grey, a quiet observer of life, stood at the edge of the pier overlooking the foggy expanse of the river. She was not one to linger in the open, especially not in the early hours when the city slumbered. Yet here she was, clutching a worn journal close to her chest, her breath misting in the cool air.

Her mind churned with thoughts she couldn't quiet, questions that seemed to hum louder with each passing day. Why had the river's waters begun to glow faintly at night? Why did the townsfolk whisper of disappearances they dared not name aloud? And why, above all, did the visions haunt her dreams—a silver key, an endless corridor, and a voice calling her name in a language she did not understand?

The pier creaked beneath her feet as she stepped forward. Her boots, scuffed and damp, left faint imprints on the weathered wood. A soft rustle caught her attention, and she turned sharply, her green eyes scanning the fog.

"Who's there?" she called, her voice steady despite the unease gnawing at her.

No answer came, only the gentle lapping of water against the dock. She tightened her grip on the journal, its leather binding a small comfort. She had written everything she knew about the visions in its pages, but the words were fragmented, incomplete—a puzzle missing half its pieces.

Then it came, faint but distinct: a whisper.

"Amara."

Her heart stilled. It wasn't the first time she'd heard her name spoken from the void, but it was the first time it felt so close. She turned again, her eyes searching the mist, and caught a flicker of movement—a shadow darting between the pilings of the pier.

Amara stepped back instinctively, nearly slipping on the damp wood. "Show yourself!" she demanded, her voice firmer now.

From the fog emerged a figure cloaked in black, its face obscured save for a glimmer of pale light where eyes should have been. The air grew colder, the mist thickening as if drawn to this presence.

"You hold the key," the figure said, its voice like a blend of wind and broken glass.

Amara's grip on the journal faltered, her fingers trembling. "Key? What are you talking about?"

The figure tilted its head, a gesture both curious and unnerving. "Find the gate, Amara. Before it finds you."

The figure dissolved into the fog as swiftly as it had appeared, leaving behind an eerie silence. Amara stood frozen, her heart racing, her breath shallow. The journal slipped from her hands and landed on the pier with a dull thud.

Her thoughts screamed for clarity, but none came. What gate? What key? And why her?

As the first rays of sunlight began to pierce the fog, she stooped to pick up the journal. She opened it to a blank page and scribbled furiously:

Figure in black. "Find the gate." What does it mean?

Her pen hovered for a moment before she wrote one final line:

I need to know.

And with that, Amara turned away from the pier, her mind set on finding answers, unaware that her steps were already drawing her closer to the gate she sought—and the shadows waiting beyond it.