Finch remembers the lanterns.

That’s how it always begins — with thelanterns drifting above the fields like a slow constellation, light swaying inthe wind. Every year, on the longest day, the children would carry paperlanterns down to the river. They were shaped like birds, or houses, or the longcurling horns of the goddesses’ mounts, and as the sun set, they were setafloat to follow the current toward the lowlands. It was said Brigantia watchedfrom the water’s edge, counting each one before dawn.

He remembers Serai’s hand on hisshoulder, warm and steady. He remembers the scent of crushed mint and smoke. Heremembers laughter — his own, high and thin, carried away by the river. Heremembers whispering a wish into the lantern’s paper belly before setting itfree.

He remembers saying, “For everyone tobe happy.”

He was small enough then to believewishes needed no precision, that belief was enough to steady clumsy words.

The image is bright in him still; theripple of flame reflected in water, the gentle touch of Serai’s fingers when hepushed the lantern into the current, the way the whole river glowed like astring of stars. When he was sick, that’s what he would close his eyes and see:not the fever, not the walls of the Sanctum ward, but the light drifting awayand the world briefly beautiful.

But he dreams it again now, years later,after the fever, after everything — and the river is wider than it should be.The banks are choked with reeds that weren’t there before, blocking him fromreaching the bank. The water moves too fast, too deep. The air smells not ofmint but of vinegar. And Serai isn’t beside him. Someone else stands thereinstead, taller, voice like dry grass: “Light it. Quickly, before the wind.”

When Finch lifts his lantern, it isn’tmade of paper at all. It’s bone — thin ribs wired together, hollow-eyed,glowing from within. The flame inside is wild, eating through the kindling likerot through flesh. He sets it in the water and watches it sink. The currenttakes it under without a trace.

He looks for Serai, calls his name, butthe river answers first — a low rushing that sounds almost like a voice.

When he wakes, there is little light. Hepushes open the door to the Sanctum office. There’s the smell of damp herbs,the clink of glass, the quiet of work beginning. Serai works over driedflowers, grinding them into dust.

“Finch. It’s cold,” Serai says, gettingup and draping something soft across Finch’s shoulders. “You need a shawl.”

“Did we used to send lanterns down theriver?” Finch asks, sitting down. His voice feels too soft for the question.

Serai pauses, pestle quietening. He stayssilent for a long time. “We did,” he says finally. “Not every year, but once.The year before you got sick.”

Finch nods. “I thought it was beautiful.”

“It was.” Serai's smile is audible, butthere’s a shadow behind it. “It was our first vigil. We sent the lanterns forthe ones who’d already died.”

“Oh.”

Finch feels the shape of his memory shift, like a reflection disturbed by a thrown stone.

He still sees the lights — hundreds of them — the names, the prayers, the farewells. He remembers the silence. Serai’s hand trembling when he lit his own lantern. He remembers the smell of smoke from the pyres downriver, masked with mint and lavender. He remembers that when he whispered his wish, Serai closed his eyes as if he couldn’t bear to hear it.

The memory settles back into place.Heavier, but no uglier. Because even then, even surrounded by death, Serai hadhelped him light the lantern and had smiled, as if to say that wishing wasstill a kind of healing. He keeps the image of it: a thousand small flames,carried away by water, their glow trembling in the wake of loss.

Outside, the river keeps flowing. Thelanterns are long gone, but sometimes, when the evening catches right, Finchswears he can still see them.

Not as they were, but as he needs them to be.