The Lantern Girl

The first time Aarav saw her, she was walking through the fog with a lantern in her hand.

It was a rainy evening in the remote village of Devka. Aarav, a travel writer, had rented a cottage near the forest for solitude. He’d heard tales of the forest being haunted, but he dismissed them as village folklore—until he saw her.

She wore a white dress, old-fashioned, soaked by the mist. Her face glowed dimly in the orange lantern light. She didn’t speak. Just walked along the narrow forest path as though pulled by some invisible thread.

Curious—and slightly unnerved—he followed from a distance. But after a few turns down the trail, she vanished.

The next night, she appeared again. Same path, same lantern. But this time, she looked at him.

Not with fear. Not with surprise. As if she had been waiting.

He called out, “Hey! Are you alright?”

She didn’t answer.

He jogged closer. “You shouldn’t be out here. It’s not safe in the forest at night.”

She paused, turned slowly, and whispered, “Then why are you here?”

Her voice was soft. Almost too soft for the wind to carry. Then she turned and walked away, lantern swinging. Once again, she disappeared into the fog.

By the third night, Aarav had stopped trying to explain it logically.

He waited for her.

And she came.

She didn’t say much, but this time she sat with him by the stream. Her fingers played with the lantern’s handle. He noticed the way her dress never seemed to dry, the way her hair clung to her like she’d just stepped out of rain—even when it hadn’t rained for hours.

Still, he didn’t ask.

Instead, he told her about his life. His travels. His broken engagement. How writing was the only thing that helped him feel anything anymore.

She listened.

When he asked for her name, she said, “They used to call me Meera.”

Used to.

He kept returning.

Night after night.

And she did too.

The forest, once eerie, now felt like home. Her presence was like a song he couldn’t remember the lyrics to—but longed to hear again.

One night, he asked, “Why are you always carrying that lantern?”

She looked down at it. “It’s the only thing that remembers me.”

“What do you mean?”

“If I let go of it,” she said quietly, “I disappear.”

He laughed nervously. “Like a ghost?”

She didn’t laugh.

The next night, she didn’t come.

He searched the forest, the trails, the stream—but she was gone. The quiet was unbearable. The trees felt taller, the mist heavier.

On impulse, he went into the village and asked the oldest shopkeeper, “Have you ever heard of a girl who walks through the forest at night with a lantern? Someone named Meera?”

The old man froze.

Then, in a hushed tone, he said, “That’s an old story. A girl named Meera lived in that cottage decades ago. Her fiancé never returned from the war. Every night, she’d walk through the woods with a lantern, hoping to find him. One night, during a storm, she slipped near the stream and drowned.”

Aarav’s chest tightened.

“Some say her soul still searches. But only those who are truly heartbroken ever see her.”

He ran back to the forest that night.

Waited.

Prayed.

“Meera!” he called into the trees. “Please come back!”

Silence.

Then—faintly—the glow of a lantern.

She stepped out from the mist, eyes glistening.

“I thought you forgot me,” she whispered.

“Never,” he said, breathless. “Even if the whole world forgets, I’ll remember.”

She looked down at the lantern in her hand. It flickered.

“I don’t want to fade,” she said. “But I’m tired.”

Aarav stepped closer. “Then don’t. Stay.”

She smiled sadly. “You still have a life. I’m only a memory.”

He reached out. His fingers touched hers—cold, like morning dew.

She leaned in and pressed her forehead to his.

“I was waiting for someone who’d love me… even after knowing the truth.”

The lantern in her hand suddenly burned brighter. Then dimmed. Then—darkness.

He woke at dawn by the stream. Alone.

No lantern. No Meera.

For days, he searched. He even walked barefoot into the cold river, whispering her name. Nothing.

Until one evening, he found something new by the willow near the stream—a second lantern, glowing softly.

And inside it, a small note:

"I let go. But now, I remember too."

Aarav never left the village.

He bought the old cottage and stayed.

Locals say they see him at twilight, walking alone with two lanterns—one in each hand.

And sometimes, if the mist is thick enough, and your heart is broken enough—you might catch a glimpse of a girl in white, smiling beside him.