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."