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 didn't trust it. She cupped her hand and pinched the wick hard to snuff it. The flame slipped sideways through her fingers without burning her, then flared back up, brighter, almost insulted. Clearly this lantern was not going to be put out.

Wren stepped back, hands up. "Fine. You win." The lantern settled, calm now, and floated a slow circle around her, like a dog deciding she was safe. Then it drifted off toward the old stone bridge and paused, plainly wanting her to come along.

On the bridge, the lantern lit up wet footprints leading across the stones, fresh and small, going away into the mist. Wren followed them step for step, the gold light at her shoulder, until the prints stopped at the rail above the deepest part of the river.