The Littlest Lantern

The village of Brindle Bay always waited for night like a friend comes home. Windows would glow, cats would pad along low fences, and the sea would breathe silver under the moon. At the edge of the harbor stood Lampwick, the old public lantern, perched on a tall wooden post like a gentle watchman. He had guided boats for many winters, his glass face warm with stories and his iron arm creaking like a grandfather who loved to laugh. Tonight was the Fisher Festival, and the whole village buzzed like bees in the market. Bunting arced across the lane, fish prints were pinned to the notice board, and strings of lanterns like a river of stars waited to be lit. Children chased each other under the bunting, singing the festival song in high, excited voices.

Lila sat on a low shelf in the lantern shop, her glass small and clear, her wick coiled like a tiny question mark. She had been polished till she gleamed, and a ribbon of blue had been tied around her brass handle for luck. Yet when she peeped out, she saw the bigger lanterns—tall ones with thick glass and hot, steady flames—and felt small as a firefly. Pip, the field mouse who lived in the shop’s corner, hummed as he finished threading a new wick into a copper lamp. He always knew the right size of twine and the best way to tuck a wick, and he always believed little things could do big jobs.

Pip nudged Lila with his tiny paw and said, 'Tomorrow you'll sit at the window and sparkle for the festival, Lila. They love your clear light.' Lila smiled a flicker and tucked her wick closer to the glass. Still, when the shop bell rang and the lanterns were carried past, each one taller and louder than the last, something hollowed out inside her. She wondered whether the village would need her at all. Outside, Lampwick cleared his throat and his light winked like a reassuring eye.