Days Later...

  Lantern Day was always one of the brightest days of the year.

  It started in the morning, with small hands and clumsy fingers dipping brushes into pools of paint, trying to make stars, animals, or hearts onto the round paper shells. The scent of glue and wax filled the air. Tables were covered in newspaper, and voices were louder than ever—children arguing over colors, calling out their designs, laughing as the paint stained their fingers.

  He sat near the end of the table, tongue between his lips, focusing on his strokes. He painted slow. Careful. He wasn’t sure what the shape was, not really—it looked like a moon, maybe. Or a spiral. But it was *his*. When it was done, one of the educators smiled and said it looked like the wind.

  Later, they threaded the lanterns onto sticks with small lights inside, and when evening came, the parents arrived.

  Warm jackets. Hot tea. Soft, flickering lights.

  The group of children gathered in a long line outside, and when the first lantern glowed to life, a ripple of joy ran through them. One by one, the others lit up, and soon the playground and walkways shimmered with color. Red, orange, green, gold—like floating stars in the dusk.

  He held his lantern tightly, watching the glow from inside the painted swirl dance against the cold air. His two friends were beside him, walking close. They sang a song—he didn’t know the words exactly, but he liked the sound of it. The rhythm. The feeling.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  He didn’t sing, but he hummed.

  Not loud.

  Just enough.

  Parents walked behind them, some filming, some chatting. His mother walked a few steps behind him, smiling. She looked tired but happy.

  For that one night, everything felt soft. Safe. Like the light of the lanterns could carry the warmth home.

  And it did.

  For a while.

  ---

  Weeks passed.

  The lantern sat on top of his bookshelf now. The light no longer worked, but he didn’t mind. He liked how it looked in the dark—like something sleeping.

  Then came the morning everything felt... wrong.

  It wasn’t anything he could see right away. Just something in the air. Stillness. Too still. No humming from the kitchen. No movement in the hallway. He padded out in socks, clutching a blanket, and found her in the living room.

  His mother.

  Sitting on the couch.

  Crying.

  She didn’t look up right away. She held a tissue in one hand and stared at the TV. The sound was low—he couldn’t hear much of it—but he saw the name on the screen. The face. Repeating again and again.

  Michael Jackson.

  He knew the name. The music. His mother loved his songs. She used to dance in the kitchen when no one was looking, sometimes lifting his hands into hers and spinning him around. She’d sing with a spoon in her hand, laughing when she forgot the words.

  But now... she didn’t laugh.

  She didn’t speak.

  He stood there for a while, unsure what to do. The world felt strangely fragile, like the day of the break-in, but different.

  This wasn’t about danger.

  This was about something *gone*.

  He walked closer, gently climbed up beside her, and leaned into her arm.

  She put an arm around him and pulled him close, pressing her cheek to his hair. Her breathing hitched, and the warmth of her sadness soaked into him. Not in words, not in explanation. Just in weight.

  He didn’t ask what happened.

  He didn’t need to.

  He just sat there, with her, in the silence.

  Later that day, she played one of the songs again. Not loud. Just enough to hear the rhythm, the beat, the voice that always seemed to dance.

  She cried again, quieter this time.

  And he listened.

  To the music.

  To her heart.

  To the strange way the world could glow... and then dim.

  Like lanterns.

  Flickering.

  But never fully gone.