The rain arrived without warning.
It poured like grief—sudden, cold, and heavy. By the time the boy reached the edge of town, his clothes clung to him like second skin, soaked through. But he didn't flinch. He never did. Not when the lantern began to glow.
The flame inside flickered softly, bluish-white, swaying not with the wind but with intention.
It was calling.
Somewhere, a soul had awakened.
The boy followed.
Down old paths swallowed by mud and moss. Through alleys where puddles mirrored the gray skies. Past a half-burnt telephone post where vines had begun to grow.
At the end of that road stood a narrow footbridge, old and worn, arching over a rushing canal.
And on it—
A girl.
She stood facing the water, motionless in the rain. Her school uniform was drenched, skirt torn at the hem. Her hands were at her sides. Her hair stuck to her cheeks like ink bleeding across a canvas.
He knew immediately.
She wasn't alive.
But she hadn't fully passed, either.
The boy stepped closer, careful not to startle her. The lantern swung gently at his side, casting a faint light through the drizzle.
"I'm not here to stop you," he said, softly. "But if you've been waiting to be heard… I'm here now."
Her head turned, slowly.
Their eyes met.
And then, she spoke.
"I didn't see the truck," she said, her voice hollow, as though traveling from someplace far away. "I was late for school again. We had a quiz. I was running."
She looked back down at the water.
"Mama said I was irresponsible. Papa said dreaming wouldn't get me anywhere. So I ran. I just wanted to prove them wrong."
She raised her hand slightly—clutching something invisible—and opened it. The boy watched as droplets passed through her fingers like smoke.
"I used to sing," she continued. "For my little brother. He said I sounded like the radio. Even when I was off-key."
A small smile flickered across her face, then vanished.
"I never got to say sorry. I wanted to sing for Papa on his birthday. I wanted them to be proud of me."
The lantern's flame pulsed—brighter, warmer.
She turned to him again.
"Do you think they even remember?"
The boy took a slow breath. "They do. Even when it hurts, even when they try to forget. They remember."
Her expression trembled.
"They didn't come to the bridge," she whispered. "After it happened. They never visited. No candles. No flowers."
"They couldn't," the boy said. "Sometimes grief is louder than love. It drowns out the things we want to say."
She looked at the lantern. Its light reflected in her eyes.
"Will this make it stop?" she asked. "The crash… I hear it when it rains."
"It'll guide you," the boy said gently. "But only you can choose to let go."
He held out a hand—not to take hers, but to show he wasn't afraid.
"Peace isn't something the lantern gives. It only carries the light. Forgiveness… that has to come from you."
Tears slid down her cheeks, though no rain touched her anymore.
"I just want them to know I tried."
"They'll know," he said.
She stepped closer, into the light.
As she did, her edges softened. Her soaked form shimmered like a dream dissolving at dawn. Her shoes—black, worn, school-issued—remained behind, gently falling to the wet bridge like forgotten offerings.
And then—she smiled.
"Thank you."
With that, she was gone.
The lantern dimmed, but did not sleep.
The boy looked down at the shoes, still warm from memory.
He wrapped them in his scarf.
"Some stories don't end when the soul passes," he thought. "Some linger, waiting for the living to speak, too."
He turned back toward the town, the rain slowing to a gentle drizzle.
Behind him, the river roared.
Ahead, something quieter awaited.
Forgiveness.