The Lantern Keeper

Mira had lived in the little hill town her entire life, but she had never really noticed the old lighthouse until the day she needed it most. It wasn’t near the sea—there was no ocean for hundreds of miles—but it stood tall on the highest ridge, its lantern glowing each night like a quiet promise. Most people called it odd. Some called it pointless. But everyone agreed it was beautiful. One late afternoon, after one of those long, heavy days that seem to soak into the bones, Mira wandered up the hill just to breathe in some fresh air. She didn’t expect anything unusual—just a moment alone, away from noise, tasks, expectations, and the feeling that she was somehow always falling short. The path twisted between pine trees until she reached the lighthouse door. To her surprise, it was slightly open, a soft golden glow leaking out, warm enough to melt the chill in the air. She hesitated, then knocked gently. “Come in,” a voice called—calm, old, and kind. Inside stood a man with silver hair and a sweater that looked hand-knitted. He was polishing the great glass lantern with slow, patient movements. I’m sorry,” Mira stammered. “The door was open.” “It often is,” the man said, smiling. “People who need light usually find their way here.” Mira exhaled, almost a laugh. “I didn’t come for anything in particular. Just… felt drawn, I guess.” “That’s usually how it works,” he said. The lantern above them flickered gently, casting honey-colored light across the room. It felt less like a building and more like being inside a giant heartbeat. “Why do you keep it lit?” Mira asked. “There’s no ocean. No ships.” The man chuckled. “Light doesn’t only guide ships. It guides people too. Sometimes in ways they don’t realize.” Mira sat on a wooden crate near the wall. “I don’t feel very guidable right now.” He glanced over. “Then you are exactly where you should be.” There was something comforting about the way he said it—not dramatic, not mystical, just sure. “Some days,” Mira said, picking at a loose thread on her sleeve, “it feels like I’m walking in fog. I keep moving, but I don’t know toward what.” The lantern keeper nodded. “Fog is not your enemy. It slows you down so you can notice what you’ve been rushing past.” “And what if I don’t know what that is?” Mira asked. “Then the fog keeps you still until you do.” The lantern hummed softly, its flame steady and unhurried, as if it knew exactly what it was doing. The man reached into a drawer and took out a tiny object wrapped in cloth, handing it to her. Inside was a miniature brass lantern no bigger than her palm. “It’s beautiful,” she whispered. “But I can’t keep this.” “You can,” he said, “but only if you promise one thing: don’t wait until you feel strong to light it. Light it when you feel lost. Light it when you feel unsure. Light it when you feel like giving up. That’s when small lights matter most.” “Does it have a switch or something?” she asked. He smiled. “It lights the moment you believe there is even a small reason to keep going. Even a tiny, tiny one.” “That sounds like magic,” she said. “All real things do.” When she finally stepped outside, the sky had shifted to twilight. The lighthouse glowed behind her as she walked down the hill, its steady beam brushing the tops of the trees like a blessing. Halfway home, Mira whispered to the tiny lantern, “I don’t know much right now. But I think I want tomorrow.” At her words, a warm spark flickered to life inside the little lantern, glowing softly against her palm. Mira smiled—really smiled—for the first time in a long while. Some lights were small. But small lights, she realized, were sometimes the ones that saved you.