The Lantern Maker of Lyria

M Mehran

Lyria was a town that did not sleep. Even at midnight, its narrow cobblestone streets glowed with strings of paper lanterns—blue for peace, yellow for hope, white for healing, and red for courage. But the most beautiful lanterns, the ones people whispered about, came from the workshop at the very edge of the riverbank, where an old woman named Sera lived.

Sera was a lantern maker, but not the ordinary kind. Her lanterns were said to hold memories—real ones, taken from hearts that were too heavy to carry them. People came to her door in the quiet hours of dawn, clutching their pasts like burdens they no longer wanted.

No one knew how Sera collected the memories. Some said she caught them like fireflies. Others believed she carved them out of shadows. A few whispered that she had once given up a memory of her own, and since then, she had been able to touch the memories of others.

But none of that mattered to Mika, a sixteen-year-old girl who had spent the last month sitting outside Sera’s workshop, waiting.

Mika held a small silver ring around her neck. It belonged to her brother, Lior, who had disappeared in the river storm three months ago. The river had given back his ring—but not him.

Tonight, she finally gathered the courage to knock.

The door opened before she touched it. Sera stood there, her eyes pale like moonlit water.
“You’ve been waiting a long time,” she said softly. “Come in.”

Mika stepped inside. The workshop was filled with hundreds of glowing lanterns. Each seemed to pulse faintly, as if breathing.

“What memory do you want to let go?” Sera asked.

Mika clutched the ring. “None,” she whispered. “I want to find one.”

That made Sera pause. Nobody came for retrieval; they came for release.

“I want to see the last memory my brother left behind,” Mika said. “Before the river took him.”

Sera studied her face. “Memories do not always show what we want,” she warned. “Some show only truth.”

“I still want to see it.”

Sera nodded slowly and turned to the shelves. She pulled down a lantern—unlit, white, frail as winter glass.

“This one is empty,” she said. “It will hold whatever you seek.”

She handed the lantern to Mika, who felt it tremble as if sensing her grief.

“Close your eyes,” Sera instructed. “Hold the ring. Think of him—the sound of his voice, the way he laughed, the last time you saw him.”

Mika shut her eyes. Memories surged—Lior teaching her to skip stones, Lior racing her across the riverbank, Lior promising he’d be back before the storm turned fierce.

A warm wind brushed her face. The lantern glowed.

Suddenly, the world changed.


---

Mika stood on the edge of the river. But it was not the river as it was—it was brighter, clearer, shimmering with something almost unreal. Lior stood there too, barefoot, smiling at her as if nothing had happened.

“Lior?” Mika breathed.

He turned, eyes widening. “Mika? What are you doing here?”

“I… I came to see your last memory.”

The sky flickered, as if the world knew something it wasn’t supposed to.

“This place isn’t a memory,” Lior said sadly. “It’s a doorway. A place between letting go and holding on.”

Mika’s heart tightened. “I don’t understand.”

Lior knelt beside the river. “The storm didn’t mean to take me. I tried to come back. But sometimes the river keeps what it loves.”

Tears filled Mika’s eyes. “I wasn’t ready to lose you.”

Lior reached out, brushing a tear from her cheek. But his fingers passed through like mist.

“I know. That’s why you came. But Mika… if you stay here, you’ll get stuck between the worlds. Like me.”

The lantern flickered in Mika’s hand. Its light was fading.

“You’re not gone,” she whispered. “I can still see you.”

“Only because you haven’t let me go,” Lior replied gently. “But you must. You deserve a life outside of this memory.”

Mika shook her head. “I can’t. You’re my brother.”

“And I always will be,” he said. “But I don’t belong in your world anymore.”

Thunder rolled in the distance—the storm returning, repeating, as memories often do.

“You have to leave before the lantern goes dark,” Lior said urgently. “If it closes, you’ll be stuck here.”

Mika looked at the fading light, then at Lior. Her chest ached with a pain she wasn’t ready to face.

“Will I ever see you again?” she whispered.

Lior smiled—soft, warm, familiar. “In every river you walk beside. In every storm that passes. And in every lantern Sera hangs above the town. I’ll be there.”

The wind surged. The river roared. The lantern’s glow dimmed to a thread.

“Mika, go!”

She reached for him one last time. Their hands almost touched—almost.

Then the world shattered into light.


---

Mika gasped and opened her eyes. She was back in Sera’s workshop, the lantern in her hands now glowing softly—steady, peaceful.

Sera watched her with gentle knowing. “You saw him.”

Mika nodded, tears falling silently.

“Did you find what you needed?”

Mika closed her fingers around the lantern’s warm surface. “Yes,” she whispered. “I did.”

Sera smiled faintly. “Then you are ready.”

Mika stepped outside. The town of Lyria shimmered with lanterns, each one holding a piece of someone’s heart. She lifted the lantern and walked to the riverbank—the same place she had once searched for Lior.

She set the lantern on the water. It floated out, glowing stronger than all the others, drifting toward the horizon like a small piece of the moon.

Mika watched until it became only a dot of light.

Then she whispered into the wind, “Goodbye, Lior.”

And for the first time in months, the river looked calm.