The Lantern in the Fog

The road had been empty for hours, swallowed by a fog so thick it seemed to erase the edges of the world. Mara gripped the handle of her lantern, its weak flame shaking against the damp air. Every step she took seemed louder than it should be, echoing through the silence like a warning.

She thought she saw shapes in the mist: shadows that moved against the grain of the wind. Trees bent at impossible angles, their branches like gnarled fingers pointing. The road twisted where it should have been straight, and Mara’s pulse sped.

Then she saw it: a light far ahead, small and steady, swinging like a hand beckoning her forward. Relief and fear tangled inside her. Someone else, she thought. Someone waiting for me.

As she neared, the light didn’t brighten. It stayed the same distance ahead, no matter how fast she walked. The shape of the figure holding it remained vague, featureless, yet somehow she felt its gaze, pressing against her back.

Mara tried to turn, to run, but the fog thickened, curling around her ankles like water. Her lantern flickered and almost died. The figure raised its light higher, and she realized with a shiver that its lantern reflected hers. Every flicker, every tremor, mirrored.

A whisper reached her ears, soft and dry:

“Do not leave the road.”

Her knees buckled. When she looked again, the figure was gone, but the lantern hung in the air ahead, suspended without a hand, swinging gently. The fog pressed closer.

Mara took a step back—and the lantern followed.

Then another—and it followed again, obedient, unyielding, patient.

She understood, then, that this was not a road to anywhere. It was a trap for those who wandered too far, and the lantern was only the first of many eyes that would never let her leave.

And in the fog, Mara’s own lantern shivered… alone.