Asha and the Lantern-Star

Asha lived where the sea made houses smell like stories. Reefhaven curved along the rocks like a friendly ear; its roofs wore salt in the seams and gulls practiced loud conversations on the chimneys. Morning in Reefhaven was a mix of tea steam, sea-spray, and the metallic cheer of someone hammering a new latch. Evenings were softer: nets hummed in porches, and the light in the little brass lantern in the lighthouse blinked as if it was keeping time with the town’s breathing.

The lighthouse was squat and round, built from driftwood, old ship planks, and a stubborn pile of brass fittings that Finn the keeper polished every Tuesday. Inside the glass hung a tiny thing most people called a lantern-star. It was not a star like a faraway fire in the sky but a small warm glow that fit in one cupped palm. Children tucked pennies under the glass and made wishes, fishermen tipped their hats to it, and mothers taught sleepy children that the lantern-star kept the harbor polite: it reminded the sea which way the quay lay and told storms to bend their knees and pass. Asha loved the lantern-star the way someone loves a favorite song. She learned the hum in its light before she could read the numbers on Finn’s watch.

Asha climbed the lighthouse stairs with a basket of squid cakes wrapped in brown paper because Finn liked them with his morning tea. Her braids bobbed and smelled of nettle. She had a careful step that remembered every creak in the stair. When she reached the lantern chamber she touched the glass and stopped. It was cool. The steady hum that lived inside the lantern had thinned into a hush. The wick sat slack and pale. Dust feathered the rim of the glass like someone had traced a small finger across its face.

Finn was tying his bootlaces, his brow knitting into a map of small worries. He looked at the lantern as if willing it to begin again. Outside, the harbor seemed quieter; boats leaned toward their moorings and did not bob with their usual bright chatter. People gathered as certain ways of the world began to feel fragile. The mayor, who always smelled faintly of lemon and soap, called the town meeting at noon. Tilda the fish seller wrung her apron, Tomas the cartwright tapped his box twice, and Marn the shell-boy lost the curve of his smile.

When the town voiced its fear, Asha felt something small and steady rise behind her ribs. Finn put a rough palm over her hand and said, "Things go missing sometimes. We find them, or they find their way back."

Asha looked up at the cool glass, remembered the lullaby her grandmother hummed when the wind made the curtains dance, and said, soft but steady, "I'll go."