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.

Wren knocked. The door swung open onto a warm kitchen that couldn't possibly fit behind it. A young man sat at the table, looking lost. "You found the way," he said, smiling. "I lit that lantern to find the road home, but I forgot which door was mine. Thank you."

Wren stepped inside, and the young man poured her tea like an old friend. When she finally left, the door closed softly and faded into the grass, gone for good. But in her pocket she found a tiny paper lantern, no bigger than a thumb, glowing just for her. A thank-you she'd keep forever.