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.

It was January yesterday.
I’m sure of it.

The air still tasted like beginnings,
like clean paper and unwritten promises,
like the slow stretch of mornings
that had nowhere urgent to be.

Now the light slants differently through the window.
Now the trees stand thinner.
Now the calendar gasps—
pages torn too quickly from their spine.

Time does not knock.
It does not ask if we are ready.
It slips past our shoulders
while we are tying our shoes,
while we are laughing mid-sentence,
while we are saying,
“Just a minute.”

But a minute is a door left open.
A minute is a current.
You step in ankle-deep
and find yourself carried miles from shore.

I measure my life in small vanishings:
the last time I was carried to bed,
the last summer the fireflies felt infinite,
the last conversation I didn’t know
was the last.

How quickly the music fades
while we are still learning the steps.
How suddenly the mirror
begins returning someone older
than the voice inside their chest.

The days are beads on a broken string—
bright, beautiful,
and impossible to gather once scattered.

If I could cup a moment in my hands
I would hold the ordinary ones:
the hum of the refrigerator at midnight,
sunlight warming the kitchen floor,
the sound of someone I love
breathing in the next room.

Because the years are not stolen in storms.
They are lifted quietly,
like steam from a cooling cup of coffee—
there,
then air.

It was January yesterday.
I’m sure of it.

And tomorrow
it will be winter again.