By dawn the Lantern Festival was over. Wren walked the rows along the river, pinching out flame after flame. Every paper lantern died at her touch but one. It hung at the water's edge, glowing a steady gold no breeze could shake. When she reached for it, the little wick leaned away from her fingers and tugged its string, like it wanted her to follow.

Wren untied the string and let the lantern go. Instead of drifting up, it floated forward, low over the path, waiting for her to keep up. "Okay," she whispered. "Lead, then." It bobbed once, like a nod, and started down the riverbank.

The lantern led Wren up a hill path she'd never noticed, away from the sleeping town. At the top stood a crooked wooden door with no house around it, just a door in the grass. The lantern floated up to it and waited, glowing, as if asking her to knock.

Before Wren could knock, the door opened on its own. Beyond it was only the same hillside she'd just climbed, but at the bottom stood her own little house, windows lit warm and gold. The lantern had been leading her home all along.