At the edge of the field, where the grass grows tall
and the wind hums secrets through the stems,
a single lantern glowed.

No one knew who lit it.
No one claimed it.
Yet every night, it burned—
soft, steady, patient—
as if waiting for someone who was late
but worth waiting for.

One evening, a girl wandered toward it,
bare feet brushing the cool earth,
heart heavy with questions she couldn’t name.
The lantern flickered once,
as though recognizing her.

She knelt beside it.
“Are you for me?” she whispered.

The flame leaned toward her,
a tiny bow, a quiet yes.

And in that warm, golden light,
she felt something loosen—
the knot of worry, the ache of yesterday,
the fear of tomorrow.

The lantern didn’t promise answers.
It didn’t promise miracles.
It simply stayed lit,
bright enough to see the next step,
soft enough not to blind her.

Sometimes, that was all a person needed.

So she stood,
took a breath that felt like the first real one in ages,
and walked forward—
the lantern’s glow following her
like a loyal little moon.