Every evening, Laya lit the lanterns along the ancient bridge that stretched over the misty valley. It was a quiet ritual—one passed down through generations in her family. The glow of each flickering flame guided travelers safely across, but few ever noticed the keeper behind the light.
One rainy evening, a stranger arrived just as she struck the first match. He was drenched, his shoes caked in mud, yet his eyes held the kind of wonder that Laya hadn’t seen in years.
“You light the way for others, but who lights the way for you?” he asked, watching the lanterns shimmer against the dark.
She hesitated. No one had ever asked.
Over time, the stranger—Aarin—returned with stories of places beyond the valley, bringing paper cranes folded from old maps and gifts of moon-drenched poetry. He spoke of wonders, but never of himself.
Then, one night, he didn’t come. Weeks passed, and still, the bridge remained empty of his laughter.
One evening, as Laya prepared the lanterns, she noticed something carved into the wood of the bridge’s railing: "For Laya, the only light I’ve ever followed."
Aarin had left without a goodbye, yet his words stayed—etched into the path she walked every night.
And somehow, that was enough.