The Paper Lantern

The 7:52 tram from Old Town to the Industrial District was always a gamble. On this particular Tuesday in late November, Mira had lost. She stood crushed against the rear door, her laptop bag digging into her ribs, the smell of wet wool and stale coffee thick in the air. The heater sputtered, offering little relief from the damp cold that seeped through the windows.

She’d missed the earlier tram by seconds, and now she was paying for it. The route was a straight shot down Meridian Avenue, past the shuttered factories and the silent grain silos that had stood empty for decades. It was a commute she’d made for two years, and she knew every flicker of the fluorescent lights, every pause at the automated crossings.

As the tram lurched forward, Mira noticed a man near the middle of the car. He was standing, one hand gripping the overhead rail, the other clutching a paper lantern, the kind you might see at a festival, but made of yellowed paper and twisted wire. It was unlit, and looked old, almost fragile.

She’d seen him before. Or at least, she thought she had. Maybe on this same tram, a few days ago, holding that same lantern. But she couldn’t remember his face, only the lantern. It was an odd thing to carry on a morning commute.

The tram stopped at the old Meridian Market station. No one got on or off, but the doors opened with a tired sigh. As they slid shut, the man turned and looked directly at Mira. His eyes were pale, almost colorless, and they held her gaze for a moment that felt too long. Then he smiled, a thin, brittle smile, and mouthed something she couldn’t understand.

Mira looked away, embarrassed. When she looked back, he was gone. The lantern was on the floor, where he’d been standing, a small pool of light spilling from it, though it wasn’t lit. It began to move, sliding toward her as if pushed by an invisible hand. It stopped at her feet.

She hesitated, then bent to pick it up. The paper was cool and smooth, like skin. When her fingers closed around the wire handle, a jolt went through her, and the lantern grew warm. A low hum emanated from it, a sound that seemed to come from deep inside her own head.

Before she could drop it, the tram’s lights flickered. The other passengers, who had been motionless, turned as one to look at her. But their faces were not faces; they were blank ovals of flesh, no eyes, no mouths. They began to whisper, a sibilant hiss that rose in pitch until it was a single, piercing note.

Mira’s heart pounded. She tried to scream, but no sound came. The tram began to slow, the lights dimming until only the lantern’s glow illuminated the car. The doors opened, and she saw they were not at the next station. Instead, the tracks had disappeared, replaced by a narrow, winding path that led into a forest of black, twisted trees.

The hum intensified, and the lantern grew brighter. Mira realized with a chill that the lantern was not a thing to be carried; it was a key. And she had no choice but to take the path.

She stepped off the tram, and the doors closed behind her with a soft click. The tram vanished, leaving her alone in the silence of the dead forest. Above, the sky was the color of old paper. The lantern pulsed in her hand, and she had the unnerving sense that it was guiding her, pulling her toward something.

She walked for what felt like hours. The path led her to a clearing, at the center of which stood a small cottage, its windows glowing with a warm, inviting light. She approached, her feet numb, her mind a fog. The door was unlocked. She pushed it open.

Inside, the cottage was ordinary, cozy even. A fire crackled in the hearth. On a table sat a teapot and two cups. And in a rocking chair by the fire sat an old woman, stitching a quilt. She looked up when Mira entered, and smiled.

‘You’ve come,’ she said, her voice like rustling leaves. ‘It’s been so long since anyone brought the lantern back.’

Mira looked at the lantern, still glowing in her hand. ‘I didn’t bring it. I found it.’

‘Ah, but it found you, child. And now you must give it to the next one. That’s the rule.’

The old woman gestured to the chair opposite her. ‘Sit. Rest. In the morning, you’ll know where to go.’

Mira sank into the chair without a word. Exhaustion overwhelmed her. She slept, and dreamed of the tram and the man with the colorless eyes, and the lantern whispering secrets in a language she almost understood.

When she woke, the old woman was gone. The fire was out. The lantern sat on the table, cold and dark. And on the door, scratched in fresh paint, was a message: ‘GET OFF AT THE NEXT STOP.’

Mira stepped outside. The forest was gone. The tram was waiting at the edge of the clearing, its doors open. She climbed aboard, the only passenger. The tram moved, and the landscape outside the windows blurred until it was unrecognizable. Then, with a jolt, it stopped. The doors opened onto a platform she knew, the Old Town Station, where she’d started her commute that morning.

She stepped out, her legs shaking. She still held the lantern. She glanced at the station clock. It was still Tuesday, still early morning, but the date was different. A year had passed.

She didn’t remember the year. She didn’t remember her apartment, her job, or her life. All she had was the lantern and a growing certainty that she had to pass it on. She walked to the edge of the platform and set the lantern down. She waited. The tram arrived. The doors opened. A young man, carrying a backpack, stepped out and nearly tripped over the lantern.

He picked it up, curiosity flickering across his face. The lantern began to glow. The man looked at it, then at Mira, his eyes wide.

Mira smiled, a thin, brittle smile. ‘It’s yours now,’ she said.

The tram swallowed her, and she was gone.