As a nurse, you often witnessed family tragedies. Unfortunately, in most cases, you knew that a kind word and understanding wouldn't fix the situation, although you always offered both.

James and Mary's situation was heartbreaking: she was slowly withering away due to her disease, and he struggled to watch her suffer. There were moments when Mary, overwhelmed by her pain, snapped at her husband. James began to distance himself, unable to cope with the stress and afraid of provoking her. You felt sorry for Mary more but could understand him, too.

Sometimes illness enters lives and ruins them in unimaginable ways.

You knew that Mary was getting worse and most likely wouldn't make it out alive. The doctors' predictions were one more obscure than the other. You suggested sending her home for a while, hoping the comforting atmosphere would help her. You volunteered to assist with the necessary procedures to ease James' burden at least a bit. You didn't know what motivated you to do so, perhaps the cruel randomness of the fate that befell them both.

Today, you came to them as usual, but no one answered. There was a deathly silence on the other side of the door. A call to their home number yielded nothing, and the muffled trill of the phone caused a feeling of unease to grow stronger. You knew James' father, Frank—you lived in an apartment complex where he was a superintendent. You contacted him, and he said that the last time he spoke to his son, James sounded sick and almost insane, repeating something about Silent Hill and that Mary was waiting for him there.

Worried, you decided to go to that deserted resort town.

When James' car appeared out of the thick fog, abandoned in a parking lot with its doors open, you felt sick looking at it for some unclear reason. Reluctantly, you went over and peeked inside. The view of Mary's cold body, lovingly wrapped in a blanket with forget-me-nots, made you sink to the ground.

Something terrible happened.

You had to find James before it got any worse.