Alfred's footfalls clanged with every step as he ascended the rusty stairs to the lighthouse. His damn knees shot to hell, muscles struggling to even move his legs. Fatigue riddled and signalled the end he knew had to come. This was never the end he intended. It had just… happened. On the walkway, he took in the view for one final time, the ocean's vast emptiness extending in every direction. Deep purple crested with white crashed against the cliffs, spraying saltwater into the air that rusted every surface not made of stone. His life had mostly been maintenance; then again wasn't that the same as everyone else's?

A Wellington boot on one leg, a pegleg instead of the other, he made his way inside the lensroom, where burning oil stung his nostrils and he felt a deep sadness. This would be the last time he got to endure it. It made him think of all other experiences he would never have again, not the arthritis wrecking his body, or the taste of burnt roast, nor the relief of taking a piss. He chuckled, another experience he hadn't expected. But how could he have had expectations; there was no frame of reference for being alive, for being human, not in the void.

On an altar sat a candle, which he lit, signalling the start of the ritual. The beginning of the end. An offering of three fishfingers sat arranged into a triangle. The shape didn't matter, only the intent mattered. He contemplated the empty space in the centre of the altar, and wondered if it would hurt, if he would remember anything. Would he die? Would his essence go on, but not his memories, the beautiful pains he suffered? Was that not death by other means?

Inside something tugged, like an impatient child fed up with waiting, and my turn reverberated through his mind. Alfred smoothed over his suit, straightened, and looked up to the sky smiling. "It was worth it."

Then he retrieved a small card from his pocket, and he touched his boot on the altar. "I'm ready."

Ozone suffused the air and instantly all his aches and pains displaced, set aside by a searing golden light. Nerves screamed, he screamed, the glass screamed, as everything Alfred was, would be and ever could have been was torn out in a gush of smoke, his remains disintegrating. Inside something new grew, filling in his ragged shirt and pants and boot, displacing the pegleg which fell aside clattering.

Fresh smooth skin, hairless and unblemished, came forth in a blink, new eyes opening to see what this new world was all about. Jim, that was the name he had chosen, felt the card between his fingers and brought it up to see it.

Take your time. Be present. Don't step on nails.

Confused, Alfred's brand new brain raced to understand, and he took a step back without looking. He screamed, his foot impaled on a rusty nail and promptly fell out of the lighthouse door.

Somewhere in the void, Aldred chuckled.

Shift change complete.