The Lantern of the Last Traveler

The wind arrived first—cold, metallic, and whispering of things that had no names. It slid down the spine of the abandoned valley and rattled the bones of the old world. On that night, as the sky deepened to an impossible shade of blue, a lone traveler stepped onto the shattered road carrying a small brass lantern.

Its flame never flickered.

Liora hadn’t always been alone. Once, she had lived in the Upper Cities, where the towers reached the clouds and every window glowed gold with the hum of electric life. But the cities had gone silent five years ago, swallowed by the “Quieting”—a strange collapse that stole sound, then power, then people. One morning, Liora woke to find the streets empty except for the echoes of footsteps that no longer belonged to anyone.

She stayed a year, hoping someone would return. No one ever did.

So she walked.

The lantern had been her father’s. “It burns on truth,” he used to say, though she’d never known what he meant. But it behaved strangely—igniting without oil, brightening in danger, dimming near lies. Liora didn’t question it anymore. When you’re the last traveler in a world that has forgotten its own name, you take help where you find it.

On this night, the lantern glowed warm amber as she descended into the valley ruins. Broken rail lines curled like ribs around a sunken station. A single sign, its letters scarred by rust, read: Haven’s End.

Liora forced a breath. Her maps always faded here, as if ink refused to remember what came next. She tightened her grip and stepped inside.

The station’s entrance yawned open, surprisingly intact. Inside, the air smelled faintly of rain and dust. Shadows stretched long and restless.

Then—
A voice.

At first, she thought it was the wind again, but no. It was too soft, too shaped.

“Is someone there?” Liora whispered.

Her lantern flared white.

A figure stepped from behind a leaning pillar. Cloaked, hooded, unmoving. But not hostile. At least, not immediately.

“You carry the flame,” the figure said, voice echoing oddly, as if remembering how to speak.

Liora swallowed. “Do you… know what happened to the cities?”

“It is not my knowledge to give,” the figure said. “But the lantern knows.”

Liora lifted it slightly. “Then tell me.”

The figure tilted its head, assessing her. “Not here. Follow.”

Every rule she’d ever held warned her to run. And yet… the lantern glowed steady, warm, guiding. So she followed him deeper into the station, through a hall tiled with fractured mosaics. As they walked, faint shapes shimmered in the air—ghosts of memory, scenes replaying themselves: crowds rushing to trains, families laughing, lights bright and alive.

But none of them saw Liora.

“We preserved the echoes,” the figure said. “It was the only way to remember.”

“Remember what?”

He stopped before a metal door sealed with centuries of dust. “That your world did not die. It retreated.”

The lantern pulsed in her hand, as if agreeing.

The figure pressed a hand to the door. It unlatched with a sigh, revealing a cavern filled with thousands of lanterns identical to hers—each glowing faintly, like sleeping stars.

“These belonged to the Others,” he said. “When the Quieting came, they were chosen to cross into the still world, where sound and memory do not decay.”

“Am I supposed to go there too?” Liora whispered.

“No. You are different. You stayed. You endured. And the lantern chose you.”

It began to glow brighter, heat blooming against her fingers but not burning.

“What does it want me to do?” she asked.

The figure stepped back. “Wake the world.”

The cavern lights surged—white, gold, alive. Liora felt the flame leap from her lantern to the others, waking them one by one, until the cavern roared with light like a sunrise reborn.

For the first time in five years, Liora heard something she had almost forgotten.

The world exhaled.

And far, far away, cities began to stir.