Autumn crept in with golden light. The air smelled of apples and dry grass. After the harvest, the villages planned a lantern festival to thank the traders for a good season. Jonas said Maya should light the first flame. She tried to refuse, saying the honor belonged to the headman, but he insisted. The people wanted her to do it.

The festival began at dusk in the meadow by the river. The sky glowed orange and purple. Rows of paper lanterns lined the water, each one painted with symbols of trade—scales, jars, ribbons, stars. Children ran between them, laughing. Music drifted from the hills, soft and bright. Maya stood with Ruth, Pike, and her students near the center fire. She held the small torch Jonas handed her.

When she touched it to the first lantern, the paper caught slowly, then bloomed with light. The flame rose and floated upward, carrying sparks into the sky. The crowd cheered. One by one, other lanterns lifted, glowing red and gold. The river mirrored them until it looked like the stars had come down to visit. Maya watched, her heart full. She thought of the night she had died, the darkness and noise. This was its opposite—stillness and light.

Later she walked among the stalls that lined the meadow. Each village had set up its own booth. The northern market sold fabric. Pike sold thread and needles. Ruth gave out sweet bread. Marc and Lena balanced their ledgers on the tables and explained the ribbon method to visitors. Maya’s students helped children tie practice knots. The festival felt like a lesson that had turned into a celebration.

As the night deepened, the monk from the east arrived, walking slowly with a cane. He bowed to her. She bowed back, surprised to see him in person. He said the letter he had sent was a warning, not of danger but of change. He told her the border between worlds thinned when gratitude grew strong. She asked if that meant she might go home. He said maybe, or maybe home would come to her. Then he smiled and walked away before she could ask more.

She stood by the river after that, watching the lanterns drift. Her students gathered beside her. Mina asked if the monk’s words frightened her. Maya said no, only reminded her that nothing stays still. Lyle said if she ever disappeared, they would keep the rules. She smiled and told them that was all she hoped for.

The wind picked up and carried the lanterns higher. Their light reflected in her eyes. For a moment she thought she saw a faint shimmer—a streetlight, a flash of neon far away. It vanished quickly, leaving only the soft glow of the river. Ruth called her name. She turned and saw everyone waiting for her to join the final song. She took a breath and walked toward them.

When the music rose, she sang with the crowd. Her voice blended with hundreds of others, a simple melody of thanks. She felt no sadness now, only peace. The fire burned low, the stars wheeled overhead, and the world felt whole.

Later, as the people drifted home, she wrote a new line on the rule cloth hanging by the stall: Light shared is never lost. She watched the ink dry under the lantern’s glow. Somewhere far off, thunder murmured, but she smiled. It sounded less like a threat and more like applause.