The Lantern That Didn't Rise

Maple Hollow had a strange way of forgiving the dark. Every June, the town turned soft around the edges—porches glowing, river water stitched with light, the air smelling like sugar and wet grass. For eleven months the river just sulked between its banks, but on this one night, it shimmered like it had finally remembered hope.

Clara Ellsworth stood behind the CLOSED sign of her bakery, flour still ghosting her hands. Outside, mothers and daughters hung strings of paper lanterns from the post office to the riverbank, laughter spilling down the street like confetti. Even the men had bothered to clean up—hair slicked back, collars ironed—as if the night might let them start over.

It never worked on Clara.

Her mother used to call her “old and sensible,” which was a polite way of saying unbending. She told herself she didn’t mind missing the festivities. The ovens kept her warm, the work kept her safe. But that night, even the smell of cinnamon felt lonely. The laughter outside seemed like it belonged to another world.

A bell clanged at the back door. Clara turned and found Lila Green—the high school drama coach, always mid-chaos—already halfway inside, paint on her skirt and purpose in her stride.

“You’re missing it,” Lila said, planting both hands on the counter.

“Someone’s got to make sure tomorrow happens,” Clara said.

“Tomorrow can bake itself.” Lila snatched a paper bag, filled it with buns and cookies, dropped a few coins, and grinned. “There. Now you’ve officially made money. Come breathe some night air before you turn into bread.”

Clara started to protest, but Lila’s next words cut closer.

“She’s down there, you know.”

Clara’s throat tightened. “I’m sure she is.”

“You don’t have to pretend,” Lila said gently. “Not with me.”

Their reflections met in the bakery window—Lila bright, messy, alive; Clara pale and perfectly arranged. When Lila left, the silence came back louder than before.

Clara scrubbed at the counter to keep her hands busy, but the motions brought back other hands—long-fingered, paint-stained, writing secret words in flour when they thought she wasn’t looking.

June Carver had never known how to stay unnoticed.

She’d come to Maple Hollow one spring afternoon with a bicycle, a box of oil paints, and an unbothered laugh that carried. She wore trousers, painted barefoot on Sundays, and once said church hymns were just love songs written for a stricter audience. Clara had admired her instantly. And feared her, too.

That night, across the cobblestone street, June’s cottage glowed gold and blue. She stood on her porch, lantern in one hand, brush in the other, painting a pattern of stars instead of writing a wish. It was wrong, of course—the festival had rules—but June had never cared for rules.

Clara should’ve looked away. Instead, she found herself aching to touch that freedom, to borrow even a corner of it.

From the back window, she watched June walk toward the river, the lantern cupped in her palms like something holy. The crowd parted around her, their laughter dimming for just a heartbeat as she passed. June’s courage made something inside Clara crack open and tremble.

She remembered the first time they’d spoken—June holding a pear up to the light at the market, saying, “Don’t you love how shamelessly ripe these are?” Clara had dropped the whole bag in shock. June had knelt to help, fingers brushing hers. “They’re daring us to bite,” she’d whispered. Clara had laughed for the first time in weeks.

Since then, there had been quiet walks, shared sandwiches, long arguments about pie crust. They’d never touched beyond the accidental brush of fingers, but every word between them burned.

Now June was gone with the lanterns, and Clara was left behind glass.

The bakery clock ticked like a metronome for regret. Her mother’s voice rose up from memory: Wishes are for the weak, Clara. You make your life with your hands.

Maybe that was why Clara’s hands never stopped hurting.

A shadow moved in the alley. June again, lantern glowing soft and defiant. She looked up, eyes finding Clara’s window, and mouthed: You coming?

Clara froze. Her whole body screamed yes, but fear sat heavier. She pulled the shade down instead.

Outside, June’s voice called softly, “Clara! It’s starting! If you want—”

The words broke in half. Silence filled the rest.

When June finally opened the bakery’s back door, Clara didn’t stop her. June stepped in, the lantern’s painted stars trembling across her face. For a second, neither spoke.

“Why are you hiding?” June asked.

“I’m working,” Clara said, the lie obvious even to her own ears.

June’s gaze flicked to her empty hands. “Looks like it.”

“They’ll talk,” Clara whispered.

“They always do. That’s what towns like this are built on.” June’s mouth curved, tired and sharp. “I don’t care anymore. Not if it means—”

She stopped herself, swallowing the word.

Clara’s voice shook. “I can’t.”

June’s eyes gleamed with something fierce. “You won’t.”

The silence that followed felt like a lifetime compressed into one breath.

June set the lantern down gently. “This was supposed to be our night,” she said. “If you can’t even do this—”

“I’m sorry.”

June smiled, small and devastating. “No, you’re scared.”

Then she took the lantern and left.

Clara sat on the floor, shaking, surrounded by the smell of sugar and smoke. She stayed until the festival music faded, until the laughter turned thin. Outside, the river swallowed every light it was offered.

Later, when she finally stepped into the night, the streetlamp carved her shadow sharp against the cobblestones. She saw June near the water, holding her lantern close but not releasing it. The crowd swayed and sang. June stood still, flame flickering over her collarbones. For one moment she turned, searching the street.

Clara ducked back. Too late.

June’s shoulders fell. She walked away from the river, down the alley, lantern trembling in her hand. Then she stopped, crouched, and snuffed the flame out with her fingers. Darkness folded around her like a secret.

Clara watched her go until even her shadow disappeared into fog.

Back inside, the bakery was cold. The ovens were off. The air was thick with cinnamon and regret. She pressed her palm to the window, felt the chill creep in like punishment. The river’s reflection mocked her—every lantern floating except the one that should’ve been June’s.

She had chosen safety over the truth of her heart, and now safety was just another word for empty.

By morning, the rumor had spread: June Carver was gone. Her cottage was bare except for a few paint stains on the floorboards and the smell of turpentine. Some said she’d gone to the city, where women like her could walk unashamed. Others said she’d simply vanished into the river mist.

Clara didn’t ask. She already knew.

She baked anyway, hands on autopilot, breath shallow. The buns burned, batch after batch, until the whole shop smelled like loss. Outside, Maple Hollow woke up pretending nothing had changed, but Clara saw it in their eyes—the way they looked through her now, not at her. A woman alone they could forgive. A woman who’d loved and lost another woman—they couldn’t even name it.

She opened the bakery anyway, because that’s what she did. But she couldn’t taste the coffee, couldn’t feel the heat from the ovens. Her reflection in the steel countertop looked like someone she used to be.

Hard. Empty. Ash.

At noon, she unknotted her apron and walked out. The town kept moving around her—kids running, shop bells chiming, the world insisting on carrying on. She followed the river path to where June had stood, the air thick with last night’s echoes.

Among the reeds, caught in the mud, she saw it: a half-crumpled lantern, paint smeared but still glimmering blue and gold. June’s. The stars she’d drawn were still faintly visible, their lines blurred but shining.

Clara crouched down and reached out a hand but stopped before touching it.

Some wishes weren’t meant to be salvaged.

The wind stirred, smelling faintly of cinnamon and smoke. She straightened, watching the water move—always forward, never back.

The next lantern season would come, and maybe Maple Hollow would forgive the dark again. But Clara knew better now. The river didn’t forgive. It simply kept what it was given and carried it away.