The lost one

Finding Bright

In a quiet village nestled between rolling hills, a little girl wandered the streets alone. No one knew where she had come from, and she didn’t know either. She had no memory of her name, her family, or where she had once belonged. The townspeople whispered about her, calling her the lost one.

Years ago, a terrible fire had swept through the forest at the edge of the village. A family had lived there in a small wooden house, but when the flames died, only ashes remained. The villagers had searched for survivors, but none were found—until the girl appeared one morning, barefoot and covered in soot, too young to explain who she was.

An old woman named Marla took her in, offering food and shelter. She gave the girl warmth and kindness, but she could not give her back her past. The girl never spoke of it, though sometimes, in the dead of night, she would wake up gasping, her small hands reaching for something unseen—something lost.

Marla tried to give her a new life. The girl worked in her bakery, kneading dough and handing out warm loaves to the villagers. They accepted her presence, but she always felt like an outsider, as if she were living someone else’s life. The only thing that felt truly hers was the way the sun shone through the bakery window in the morning, lighting the flour dust in the air. For some reason, the sunlight always made her heart ache, though she didn’t know why.

One autumn afternoon, a traveling storyteller arrived in the village. He was an old man with silver hair and a voice like the wind through the trees. The villagers gathered around him in the square, eager to hear his tales of far-off lands, lost kingdoms, and forgotten children who found their way home.

The girl sat in the crowd, listening. A strange, pulling feeling grew in her chest as the storyteller wove his words. When the story ended, she found herself standing before him before she could even think.

“Do you know any stories about a fire in the forest?” she asked.

The storyteller studied her with wise, knowing eyes. “I do,” he said. “Many years ago, there was a family who lived deep in the woods—a mother, a father, and their child. They were happy, but one night, a fire stole everything from them. The village searched the ashes and found nothing. But sometimes, in the whispers of the trees, they say the child still walks, looking for something she lost.”

The girl’s heart pounded. “What was the child’s name?”

The storyteller hesitated for just a moment before he said softly, “Bright.”

A memory flickered in the girl’s mind, like a candle struggling to stay lit. A woman’s voice, warm and full of love, calling out, Bright, come inside before the stars take you away!

The world seemed to tilt. The girl clutched her chest as more memories flooded back—laughter echoing through the trees, a man’s strong arms lifting her high, the scent of pine and fresh earth. And then—the crackling of flames, the heat, the desperate screams. The darkness that had swallowed her whole.

Tears welled in her eyes. She had a name. She had a past.

She was not just the lost one.

She was Bright.

Marla, who had been standing nearby, placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Bright,” she whispered, as if testing the name on her tongue. The girl looked up at her, her eyes shining with something new—something she hadn’t felt in years.

Hope.

She would never be able to return to the home she had lost, but now she knew who she was. And with that knowledge, she could finally move forward.

Bright took a deep breath and smiled. The past would always be a part of her, but so would the future. And for the first time, she was ready to find her way home—not to the ashes of yesterday, but to the life waiting ahead.