The Paper Lanterns

Every year, on the last night of summer, the people of Lake Yura gathered to set paper lanterns afloat across the water.

Each light carried a wish, a memory, or a goodbye.

Aya had never missed a year — not even after the accident.

Especially not after the accident.

She walked to the lakeshore just before dusk, carrying a small lantern she had folded herself. Its paper was pale gold, soft as the glow of morning. On one side, she had written a single word: “Forgive.”

The lake was still, mirroring the sky’s fading light. Families laughed quietly as they painted their lanterns, children dipped their toes into the water, and the scent of incense drifted on the breeze. For everyone else, it was a night of hope. For Aya, it was a night of remembering.

Three summers ago, she had come here with Kenji — her brother, her best friend, the loudest laughter in any room. He had raced his bicycle down the hill to the lake, shouting for her to catch up. That was the last time she saw him alive. The curve on the road had taken him away faster than anyone could reach.

Since then, she came to the lake not to make a wish — but to keep him company.

She sat by the old cherry tree at the edge of the shore, her lantern beside her, her fingers tracing the word she’d written. It had taken her three years to choose that one word. Forgive.

Not him.

Herself.

As twilight deepened, a familiar voice spoke behind her.

“You still sit in the same place every year.”

She turned to see Mr. Ishida, the elderly man who ran the small shop by the hill. His wife had passed the same year as Kenji. He held a lantern of his own — painted with small white cranes.

“I suppose habits are harder to let go of than memories,” Aya said softly.

He smiled. “No, my dear. Memories are heavier. Habits just remind us we’re still alive.”

They stood in silence for a while, watching as the first lanterns floated onto the water. The lake shimmered like a sky full of stars turned upside down.

“Your brother would have liked this,” Mr. Ishida said. “He had that kind of soul — the one that made others shine.”

Aya nodded, her throat tight. “He used to say that light always finds its way back to the heart. I never understood it until…”

Her voice trailed off.

“Until you learned to carry it for him?” he said gently.

Aya smiled through her tears. “Yes.”

Mr. Ishida placed a hand on her shoulder. “Then maybe tonight, it’s time you let it go.”

He walked away before she could answer.

Aya sat for a long moment, her lantern glowing faintly in her hands. The festival music drifted across the water — soft drums, children’s laughter, the hum of life continuing. For the first time, it didn’t sound distant.

She took a deep breath, stood, and stepped toward the shore.

She lit the candle inside the lantern. The flame flickered uncertainly, then steadied, painting her face in warm gold. Her reflection shimmered beneath her — two Ayas, one holding on, one ready to let go.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered to the water. “For keeping you here when you were meant to fly.”

She placed the lantern gently on the surface. It rocked once, twice, then began to drift. The word Forgive glowed as it floated farther, joining hundreds of other lights.

As she watched it sail away, she felt something loosen in her chest — not a loss, but a release. The ache that had anchored her for years began to lift, and in its place came a strange, quiet warmth.

A sudden breeze rippled across the lake, and the lanterns danced — hundreds of golden reflections moving together, as if the stars themselves had chosen to rest upon the water.

Aya closed her eyes. For the first time in years, she didn’t see the road, the fall, the sirens.

She saw Kenji — barefoot, grinning, standing on the hill above the lake, his arms open to the wind.

“Light always finds its way back to the heart,” he said, just as she remembered.

And this time, she understood.

When she opened her eyes, the sky was full of color — the last trace of sunset fading into indigo. Around her, people cheered as their lanterns drifted into the distance. The lake was no longer just water. It was a mirror of every soul that had ever loved, lost, and dared to begin again.

Aya wiped her cheeks, smiled softly, and whispered, “Goodnight, little brother.”

Then she turned and walked away from the shore — not because she was leaving him behind, but because she was finally carrying him with her.

And somewhere across the lake, a single lantern burned brighter than the rest — as if answering her goodbye with one last, gentle glow.