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 ran to fetch old Mira, who ran the festival every year. Mira took one look at the stubborn gold light and went pale. "Some lanterns," she said quietly, "aren't lit for the sky. They're lit for someone who never came home. That one's looking for the person who made it."

Mira tried to take the lantern herself, but the moment her fingers neared it, the flame shrank away and tugged hard toward Wren. "It doesn't want me," Mira breathed. "It wants you. It's chosen who carries it home." Wren's heart pounded as the light leaned her way.

Wren cupped both hands gently around the lantern. It settled into her palms, warm and light as a sleeping bird. "All right," she said. "Show me where home is." The flame leaned forward, pointing the way down the misty road, and together they set off into the dawn.

The road curved, and there at the end stood a small cottage Wren had never seen, its door wide open and a candle burning inside. The lantern floated to the threshold and went soft and still, finally home. From the doorway, a kind voice called, "You're back. I knew you'd find your way."