When Lanterns Drown

The harbor smelled of salt, smoke, and old wood. Lanterns hung from every post along the pier, swinging gently in the evening breeze. Yet the light they offered was weak, flickering like it knew its days were numbered. People said the water had grown hungry. That it pulled light down into its depths, feeding on it until nothing remained. Most ignored such stories. Few dared to walk the docks at night.

Maris had never been cautious. She had always preferred the quiet company of shadows over the noise of crowded streets. When she stepped onto the pier that evening, her lantern bobbed in her hand, casting soft rings of amber over the wooden planks. The waves lapped at the stilts beneath her feet, restless. She paused, listening. There was a pull in the water, subtle, almost imperceptible. But it tugged at her chest, steady, insistent.

She noticed it first in the lanterns. The closest one flickered violently, then dimmed. Another farther down the pier did the same. It was not wind. Not malfunction. The light shivered, shuddered, then vanished, leaving nothing but darkness. Maris froze. The water below licked the shadows like an unseen tongue.

She stepped forward, curious. Perhaps foolishly so. Something in her mind urged her closer, as though the harbor itself had a story to tell. And in every story, she had always found the truth she sought.

Halfway down the pier, she saw it: a lantern sinking, slowly, deliberately, as though it were being dragged by something beneath the waves. Its glow twisted into the water, spreading like molten gold. Maris knelt, peering into the surface. She thought she saw shapes moving, writhing, like fingers made of light. The lantern disappeared entirely. And yet the glow lingered, faintly, in her eyes.

The whispers started then. Soft at first. Names. Pleas. Memories. Voices that had once belonged to fishermen, children, strangers who had vanished on these docks. She could not tell if it was wind or water carrying the sound. She could not tell if it was real.

A sudden splash behind her made her spin. A figure stood waist-deep in water, face obscured by dripping hair, lantern in hand. The light was dim, and yet it shone brighter than any flame should. The figure spoke without moving its lips. Why do you carry light when it belongs to the sea?

Maris blinked. She wanted to run, but her feet refused. She had come here seeking understanding, and understanding demanded courage. Because without light, we forget, she whispered.

The figure paused. The waves pulsed against the pier, echoing her words. Then it moved, gliding silently across the water, holding the lantern high. Where it passed, other lanterns flickered back to life, but only for moments. They too were drawn into the depths, swallowed by the harbor, one by one.

Maris realized something terrifying: the harbor did not simply take. It tested. Every lantern it accepted was a memory, a fragment of life. The more precious the light, the stronger the pull. And yet, the lanterns were not lost. They were carried somewhere else, beneath layers of water and shadow, safe in the hold of the sea.

Her own lantern trembled in her hand. She stared at it, imagining everything she loved held in fragile glass. She could leave it here. She could let it sink. But her instincts, stubborn as roots, refused. She lifted it high, holding on to the warm glow like a heartbeat.

The figure raised its hand. The waves paused. The lantern did not falter. Maris felt a quiet satisfaction settle in her chest. Perhaps she had passed some invisible trial. Perhaps courage was the key to surviving this hungry harbor.

The night stretched endlessly. Lanterns continued to flicker, to dive, to vanish. Maris walked the pier, her own light steadfast, guiding her way through shadows. She began to understand the truth: the harbor demanded balance. It consumed, yes, but it also preserved. Every lost light became part of something larger, something eternal.

By dawn, the water was calm. The lanterns no longer moved, yet their absence left a faint shimmer across the surface. Maris held her own lantern to the sky, feeling it steady, unyielding. She had learned what many never could: some light must be shared, some light must be surrendered, and only then does the world remember its brilliance.

When the villagers returned, they whispered about the strange night when lanterns drowned and yet glowed in their dreams. Maris smiled quietly. She did not need to explain. She carried the memory of the harbor in her heart, the pulse of light in her hands, and the knowledge that even when light disappears, it can live forever beneath the surface.