The morning the sea turned to glass, Edda woke to total silence. No waves, no birds. From her window the whole harbor looked frozen smooth and shining. She sat at her desk and, almost without thinking, dipped her pen and inked a brand-new coastline onto a blank chart: cliffs, a bay, a row of sharp rocks. None of it was real. By the time the ink dried, a fisherman was pounding on her door, shouting that ships were sailing toward land that had never been there before.

Edda grabbed the chart and ran to the docks. Sure enough, three trading ships were turning toward the new bay she had drawn — straight at the rocks she'd inked. She had to warn them. She lit a lantern, swung it over her head, and shouted for the captains to turn back.

Edda's lantern slipped and went dark. No one on the ships could see her now. Desperate, she remembered the pen still in her pocket. She knelt on the dock, pressed her chart flat, and started drawing a tall bright lighthouse right at the mouth of the bay.

As Edda finished the lighthouse, a bright beam flared to life at the mouth of the bay. The captains saw it at once and steered around the rocks into calm water. The whole town gathered to watch the strange new tower glow. Edda kept its light burning every night after, the proud keeper of a lighthouse she had drawn into being.