The Lantern at the River-bend
There was once a young woman who lived at the edge of a forest, where the river curved sharply and the water slowed. Every evening she walked to the riverbend with a small lantern, though she never lit it. She simply held it, watching the surface of the water shift from gold to grey.
She told herself she was waiting for something — a sign, a feeling, a moment of certainty. She believed that when the right moment came, she would know exactly what to do next. Until then, she stayed by the river, lantern unlit, listening to the quiet pull of the current.
One evening, an older traveler passed by and paused beside her. “Why do you carry a lantern you never light?” he asked.
She hesitated. “Because I don’t want to choose the wrong direction. If I light it, I’ll have to move. And if I move, I might disturb something I don’t understand.”
The traveler nodded, as though this made perfect sense. Then he knelt by the river, cupped his hands, and lifted a small pool of water. The surface trembled, catching the last of the daylight.
“Look,” he said. “The river is already moving. You’re not the one disturbing it.”
She watched the water slip through his fingers and return to the current. Something in her chest loosened — not a decision, not a revelation, just a softening.
The traveler stood, adjusted his pack, and continued on his way. She stayed a little longer, holding the lantern.
When the first star appeared, she lit it.
She didn’t walk far that night — only a few steps from where she’d always stood. But the light fell differently on the path, and the river sounded less like a question and more like a companion.
And that was enough.
