In a quiet village tucked between whispering hills and sleepy rivers, there lived an old lantern maker named Elias. His hands were wrinkled, his eyes a little clouded, but his lanterns oh, his lanterns! still glowed with magic.
Elias didn’t just make lanterns; he whispered to them. Each one carried a story, a wish, or a sorrow, sealed in glass and lit with quiet hope. On every full moon, villagers would gather by the riverbank and release Elias’ lanterns into the sky. It was their way of sending prayers to the stars.
But time was slipping. The village had changed. Children now watched glowing screens instead of stars. Elias, now the last of his kind, prepared to craft his final lantern.
This time, he didn’t whisper to it. He sang. A lullaby his mother once sang to him when the world was kind. He carved memories into the frame the smell of rain on old wood, the laughter of youth, the pain of watching everything fade.
On the next full moon, Elias stood alone. He lit the lantern, held it to his chest, and let it go.
It didn’t drift like the others.
It soared.
And when the villagers looked up from their screens just for a second they saw the sky bloom with a thousand forgotten lights, as if Elias’ final breath had reignited every prayer they had ever made.
The next morning, Elias’ home was empty, but the lantern on his porch still glowed faint but steady. A sign, they said, that stories never die. They just float a little higher.