A Lantern to Guide the Heart

Linnea always felt like a tiny fish in a great big pond. In her village of Lysendell, with its swarm of high-spirited townsfolk, she was the quiet one with calloused fingers and a dirt-stained apron, who fashioned lanterns from humble willow and wax. The festival of Eirlys beckoned. Village folklore spoke of Eirlys as a healing goddess, bestowing blessings through the flicker of flame. This year, the villagers wanted something special—a lantern made by Linnea. It didn't feel like an honor, so much as a shoulder-heavy responsibility. "Make it dance more than ever," said old Enid, the cobbler whose eyes seemed more like slits these days. "Atonement for a year of storms and ill crops." Linnea knew better than to argue. The workshop was a haven of scents and shadows, where melted wax trickled like honey and the willow twigs tickled her hands. She bent her head to the task, ignorant to all else. Her masterpiece was humble, much like her. It was small, perfectly spherical, with tendrils of flame-like copper curling around it—its heart a pure beeswax candle. Linnea hoisted it up, tilted her head slightly, and realized something. It pulsed. At first, it was a slow rhythm, like a slumbering breath. After the first small jolt of shock, Linnea dismissed it as her imagination. But when she lit the wick for the first time, the lantern sprung to life in a kaleidoscope of colors, revolving like a miniature sun. "What kind of witchcraft is this?" muttered Linnea, quickly shutting the workshop door behind her. For days she confided only in the light—a strange comfort filled her heart as if the lantern, warm and bright, somehow understood the unspoken sighs of her soul. Yet the festival loomed. The night came with a hush of anticipation. Music wove through the air, its notes uncertainly stepping among her nervous thoughts. Linnea and her vibrant lantern were awaiting judgment. Standing on the cobblestone plaza, she was confident they would unmask her curiosity's folly. Instead, the crowd gasped—a collective hypnotic surrender to the dancing marvel. In the midst of all this wonderment and awe, Linnea noticed how even familiar faces wore wonder like a new, vibrant coat, their usual skepticism pulled over. The lantern floated freely now, lighting its path like a solitary star. It glided over heart-shaped hedges and bronze statues. The villagers danced, children laughed and chased the lantern, one of them rolling on the ground in peals of joy. As the night thickened into something eternal, a warmth filled Linnea, and she no longer felt like a lone fish at the bottom. And something inside her whispered, "You have more than you realize." With dawn breaking, the lantern nestled softly back into Linnea's hands. One moment, it was alive, swirling with colors in rhythmic harmony with her heartbeat, the next, it was still—a gentle whisper of what had been a wondrous, shared dream. In the days to follow, Linnea became a lively color in the village palette. The lantern had been a light in her life, one small beacon that bridged the old and the new. Suddenly, the village seemed like a promising home. So, when old Enid, with her cloudy eyes, clucked her tongue and said, "Never change, Linnea," she held her lantern close and realized that maybe the change wasn't such a bad thing after all.