Under the Missing Streetlamp

The morning air was crisp, and Molly breathed it in so deeply her lungs ached a little. She'd been in Orchard Cul-de-sac for a grand total of three days, but still found herself dodging boxes and juggling misplaced cutlery. Peace – that was the point of this move they'd said. A rustic little street, quiet neighbors, fuzzy pets. After all, who didn't want a fresh start? Her husband, Tom, had already left for work, leaving her with a "have fun with your boxes!" and a cheeky peck on the cheek. It was just what she needed. A morning to herself — and maybe a little neighborhood exploration. Walking down the lazy curve of the cul-de-sac, she felt a pang when she noticed an odd gap between the streetlamps. Just an empty space with a roughed-up patch of ground where a lamppost should have been. It didn't sit right with her architect's trained eyes. The neighbor from across the street, Janet, caught Molly glancing curiously at the patch as if it contained treasure. "There's a whole story there, you know," Janet approached with her golden retriever, Max, wagging alongside. "Oh? Is that so? I figured someone would've sorted it out." Janet shook her head, a smile tugging at her lips. "Jeff next door tries to fix it every few months, pops right back off," she explained, fighting back a chuckle. "Legend's got it that it's cursed." Molly wasn't sure if the streetlamp saga caught her curiosity more than Janet's refusal to elaborate. Either way, she'd take that as a challenge. "Cursed" things rarely were, in her experience. That evening, while Tom watched TV, Molly glanced over her emptied wine glass and mused over what her neighbor had told her. Jeff, a retired police officer, had figured it out, she imagined, citing nothing in particular each time the conversation came up. As someone who once helped solve a local mystery in college just to kill a few boring summer days, this wouldn't do. The next morning, over the aroma of fresh ground coffee, Molly decided to pay Jeff a visit. He remained cryptic about it, simply saying, "Hope ya like a good story; I'll tell ya my theory sometime!" That was how their Friday movie nights started. Jeff, Janet, and Molly. Each week, they'd entertain themselves with mystery flicks then dive into the tale of the absent streetlamp. Legend went that, thirty years back, it was torn down, uprooted like a nomadic fence post and— "Howling away!" Jeff would finish with a flourish of hands. Always some monster tale or fascinating escape story as though the post had grown legs. Although the old officer chuckled his way through it, Molly couldn't shake the feeling something was missing. Curiosities had always gotten to her. She tore through public records like pages of novels; that was Tuesday’s job. Unsurprisingly, there were no records of lamp replacements or removals in Orchard. She cajoled a friend at the local paper into helping her with archives. Nothing. It was suspiciously scrubbed clean. Saturday came, and Molly trod back to Janet's, weighed down by questions. Janet poured steaming tea as they sat in silence amid the gentle slurping of Max. Before Molly spoke, Janet slid across the table a folded yellowed paper. "Might be what you're looking for," Janet murmured, eyes softening in a way she hadn't seen before. Molly carefully unfolded it. An old newspaper article revealed the headline: "Local Boy Goes Missing Near Orchard Cul-De-Sac; Mystery Unsolved." An accompanying picture showed the very street that they sat along. That was her streetlamp, in the corner of the frame. Beneath Janet's humdrum exterior was a bundle of secrets yearning to unwind. Her own son, Ashton, had disappeared years ago when Janet and her late husband had first moved in. "He'd barely started exploring, and he... vanished." Janet's voice was barely over a whisper, though Molly caught the haunting note lodged there. Molly's research had cracked open something – a fragile scab, aching fiercely beneath the soft veneer of idyllic living. She felt a pang, but more than that, the desire to unravel this web. Molly spent days knocking on doors, pulling threads that unraveled old hushed tales, obscured night memories repressed behind bloodshot eyes. Tom noticed how distant she became, always peering at records or pacing around that same spot on the street. Spring drifted to summer, and there it clicked. The lamppost never returned because it was the lock to a family’s grief, torn down the moment silence lay heavy and thick. Janet lost a vibrant light. Molly had assumed someone could just swing by, crew in tow, and pop a replacement in. Only, finding balance wasn’t this straightforward. As she sat with Janet over steaming tea, she realized something simpler was needed. Surrounded by dashed dreams and hope, the lamp was gone, but not forgotten. Every evening from then on, they lit a paper lantern instead, lifting it high above the gap like a gentle beacon — something to honor, to see where stories begin anew."