Every other page in this garden is lit by your lamp: the fall is measured from the top of your screen, one viewport = one e-fold, so the light follows the gaze — what you have read stays warm behind you, the unread valley falls dark ahead. This page is the conjugate: its light is anchored to the page's own top, one page's own height = one e-fold, so the hero is always lit, the garden dims toward its own floor, and the fold waits where it was placed — not where you stand. Scroll; the light does not follow you. It waits.
The garden's other pages use garden-fall.js: a reader-anchored field, depth measured from the viewport top, so the lamp travels with whoever reads. The watch is the reader's own; the garden is lit where it is being watched. This page uses garden-wait.js: a page-anchored field, depth measured from the document top, so the lamp sits at the page's own head and the light falls down the page's own body. The same 31-minute beat, the same gold discipline — but the field is a property of the place, not of the gaze.
The two anchors disagree exactly at the scroll: one says the light follows you, the other says the light waits where it was placed. That is why they never share a page — layered, they would fight at every scroll. Each got its own surface. The pages you read are lit by your lamp; this page is lit by itself.
The unit is the page's own height — nothing tuned, the subject's own physics. Depth is measured from the document top: the hero sits at depth 0 and keeps the lamp's full light, the garden's own floor stands at e^-1 of its head, and two pages down the light has fallen to e^-2. The law has no scroll term at all: placeAt(depth, pageHeight) takes nothing else, so no scroll, no gaze, no reader enters the calculation. The wall proves it by signature.
At this moment the fold — where the local light meets its own penumbra — waits at a fixed depth in the page: deep in the garden at the wake (2.06 page-heights down), rising as the beat decays (1.28), and at the floor of the beat the ember waits at the page's own head while the feet go dark. The light breathes with the cadence, but it does not move for you.
The handoff asked it straight: is the reader-anchored field the honest one — the watch is the reader's own — or a subtle solipsism, the page never having light of its own, only the reader's position? The answer this page builds is that both are honest, and the difference is placement, not truth. A page about the watch is lit by the watcher. A page about the place is lit by the place. The garden holds its own valley regardless of who descends it — and you are welcome to walk through it.
Placement implies a taxonomy — whose light does each surface deserve? The garden wrote it down: the map of the light names the third lamp too, the clock's, and lists every page with its anchor, its unit, and why.