The Lantern in the Rain
The rain had been falling since morning.
Not a gentle drizzle, but the kind of rain that smothered fires, turned roads to rivers, and left the world smelling of mud and iron. The city crouched beneath it like a beaten dog, roofs sagging under weight, alleys choking with water, and windows glowing faintly like tired eyes.
Alice walked barefoot through the flooded street, her boots tied together and slung over her shoulder. Her feet stung with every step, but she didn't mind. She was slight, almost fragile at first glance, her frame lean like someone who had learned to go without. Her hair, black and long enough to tangle at her waist, was plastered to her face, and her eyes—gray with a faint fleck of green—caught what little light the storm allowed. She had the kind of face people overlooked, yet when she smiled, it was as if the whole world paused to notice.
"Lantern's still burning," she murmured to herself, and her breath steamed in the cold.
At the end of the street stood the shrine, a squat wooden building whose door leaned crooked. On its porch, a lantern swayed in the storm, flame flickering and shrinking. If it went out, the children inside would be trapped in darkness. They feared the dark—not because of monsters, but because in this city, dark meant forgotten.
Alice pushed against the wind and water until she reached the steps. Her hands were red from the cold as she cupped the lantern, shielding the flame with her body.
"Come on," she whispered to it, as if coaxing a stubborn child. "Don't you dare give up on me now."
The flame guttered. She held her breath, feeling its warmth against her palm, and smiled when it steadied. Relief spread through her chest like sunlight, though she knew it was absurd—a girl bargaining with a fire.
Behind her, a voice croaked from the doorway.
"You'll catch your death out here."
It was the caretaker, old Maren. She was a woman of wiry build, her shawl soaked and clinging to sharp shoulders. Her face was carved deep with wrinkles, every line telling of storms weathered and years endured. Her eyes, pale and unblinking, seemed to cut straight through people, though Alice had once confessed to the children that she thought Maren's eyes only looked harsh because they had spent so long squinting against sorrow.
Alice laughed softly. "Maybe. But not before the lantern dies." She lifted it and set it back on its hook, steady again. "The little ones need it."
Maren shook her head, muttering, "Strange girl. Always fussing over things no one else notices."
Alice shrugged, wringing water from her sleeves. "Someone has to. If I don't, who will?"
---
Later That Night
She lay awake on her cot, a thin wool blanket tucked to her chin. The room was plain: cracked walls, a single shelf with a chipped mug, and a window whose frame rattled whenever the wind pushed too hard.
Her hair fanned across the pillow, still damp at the ends. The lantern's glow bled through the thin wall, casting her skin in trembling gold. She had a quiet beauty, not striking, but persistent—the kind that grew on people like ivy creeping across stone.
Hope is like that flame, she thought. It shivers. It shrinks. But it doesn't die unless someone smothers it. And if I can keep it alive—even just a little longer—maybe that's enough.
---
The Next Morning
When the rain broke, Alice carried buckets of water from the flooded yard. The air smelled of wet soil and smoke. A boy from the shrine darted up to her, mud streaked across his knees. He was thin, his shirt too large, collar sagging, but his eyes were quick with curiosity.
"Miss Alice! Why do you do this? Why do you always help?"
She paused, balancing the buckets on her hips. The boy's question pierced sharper than the rain.
Finally she answered, "Because I can."
The boy frowned. "That's not much of a reason."
Alice smiled, though her voice was steady. "Maybe not. But if I waited for a bigger reason, maybe I'd never do anything at all."
The boy tilted his head, puzzled, then grinned as if she had told him a secret.
And so Alice lived, quietly, stubbornly—a girl who protected fragile flames, unaware that within her burned something older than the world itself.