The Lantern Keeper

The villagers said no one could survive the storms up on Wyrm’s Peak. The winds tore roofs off houses, the snow fell sideways, and lightning danced like angry spirits. But at the very top, near the ruined watchtower, a single light always flickered through the worst nights.

Many believed it was a ghost. Some said it was the spirit of an old monk keeping vigil. Children dared one another to hike halfway up, but few got far. The trail disappeared under moss and memory. Most forgot about the light altogether—until the storm that swallowed winter.

It came sudden and brutal. The wind screamed through the valley, and even the river froze with fear. Roads were buried. Power was lost. Fires sputtered, and even hope seemed to grow cold. On the third night, little Jonah’s baby sister, Elsie, stopped breathing right. She was only six months old.

The doctor couldn’t reach them. The roads were gone. The only place with any kind of signal, any hope, was the mountaintop.

And the light.

Jonah was twelve. Small for his age but wiry and stubborn, like the mountain goats that grazed near the lower cliffs. He didn’t tell anyone what he planned. Wrapped in three layers of clothing, he took his father’s walking stick, a bag of bread crusts, and the last working lantern from their house.

He followed the trail as far as he could, then clawed his way upward through snow and rocks, guided only by the faint glow above.

Halfway up, he almost turned back. The wind howled his name like a warning. Ice bit into his skin. But then he saw it—closer now—the yellow pulse of a flame, steady and real. Someone was up there.

The tower was smaller than he expected. It leaned a little, broken on one side, but still stood proud against the wind. And outside it, tending a line of flickering lanterns on hooked poles, was a man.

He was bent with age, wrapped in furs, with a beard like snowdrift. His eyes were sharp, though kind. When he saw Jonah, he didn’t speak. He just motioned for him to come close.

Inside the tower, warmth clung to the stone. A fire crackled in the corner. Dozens of lanterns lined the walls—glass, iron, copper—each glowing faintly, like stars waiting to be hung in the sky.

“My sister,” Jonah gasped. “She needs help. We need a signal—something—so the chopper can come.”

The old man nodded. “Then we light the sky.”

Together, they carried the lanterns outside, one by one. With each one lit, the peak began to shimmer, like a lighthouse in the clouds. The storm kept roaring, but the light roared louder.

And somehow, it worked.

At dawn, through a break in the clouds, a helicopter circled and descended. Jonah’s signal had been seen.

When he turned to thank the old man, the tower was empty. The lanterns, cold and still.

No footprints. No fire. Nothing.

Back in the village, people shook their heads when he told them. But that night, and every night after, Jonah climbed a little higher, hanging lanterns wherever he could.

The wind still howled. But now, there was always light on the mountain.

And Jonah became the new Lantern Keeper.

Years passed. Jonah grew taller, his hair darker, his stride surer. But he never stopped climbing the mountain. Even when the storms weren't raging. Even when his sister grew healthy and strong, chasing butterflies instead of clinging to life.

People began to help. First it was the old carpenter, who donated new lantern hooks. Then the schoolteacher, who brought her students to see the lights. Soon, lighting lanterns on Wyrm’s Peak became a village tradition—not just during storms, but on birthdays, anniversaries, and nights when people simply needed hope.

They lit lanterns when children were born.
When old friends passed away.
When someone needed to be remembered.

No one saw the old man again. But Jonah never forgot his eyes—how they burned like coals beneath frost—and the silence in which he worked, as if keeping the light alive was all that mattered.

One night, when Jonah was almost grown, his father asked him, “Why do you keep doing it? The storms aren’t as bad now. The town has power. Roads. Safety.”

Jonah looked out the window at the faint golden pulse above the treetops. “Because there’s always someone climbing in the dark.”