The Last Lantern

She slips past the last lantern before it can claim her. The path is still behind her — neat, expected, watched. Ahead, the trees close in, leaves catching what little light the moon is willing to give. It doesn’t matter. She knows this way. Or maybe the way knows her.

Branches tug lightly at her as she moves, not enough to stop her, just enough to notice. The air smells sharp and green, alive in a way the open paths never are. Somewhere deeper in the dark, something shifts. She slows.

The crescent above her catches on the leaves, splintering into fragments of silver that follow her as she steps forward. The forest answers in small ways: a rustle where there should be none, a breath of wind against still air, the sense of being measured and allowed.

She smiles, just slightly. Whatever waits here, it has already decided she can pass. And tonight, she intends to go further than before.