The Lantern Walk
The air had that familiar November bite — the kind that nipped at noses and turned cheeks rosy but never quite chased anyone inside. People simply bundled up, layering sweaters beneath coats, tugging on scarves and mittens as they made their way to the town hall, where the Lantern Walk began each year.
Maplebay’s Lantern Walk was as certain as turkey leftovers and football replays — a ritual stitched into the season. Families gathered with their handmade lanterns: tin cans punched with stars, glass jars painted with swirling colors, paper moons glowing from within. Children darted through the crowd comparing whose light shone brightest, their laughter rising above the hum of friendly voices and the soft scrape of boots on pavement.
Mrs. Callahan appeared as she always did — wrapped in her long wool coat, carrying the oldest lantern in town. The brass gleamed dully, its handle worn smooth by generations. Rumor said it had belonged to her great-great-grandfather, Captain James Callahan, a sailor lost at sea more than two centuries ago.
She lifted the lantern slightly as the fiddler struck his first note. “This walk began to light the way for sailors at sea,” she said, her voice warm and sure. “To guide them home safely — and to give thanks for those already here. Tonight, we carry that same light for blessings and homecomings, old and new.”
The fiddler’s tune lifted into the crisp air as the procession began. Lanterns swayed like a golden river winding from the town center toward the harbor. The scent of hot cider and doughboys drifted from the food stalls along the street, mingling with salt wind and laughter. Windows glowed, porch lights flickered, and the whole town seemed to breathe in time with the rhythm of the walk.
The closer they drew to the wharf, the stronger the sea breeze became. Flames wavered, scarves fluttered, and breath turned to mist in the dim light. Just as they reached the water’s edge, Mrs. Callahan’s lantern flickered once, twice — then went out. She smiled faintly, tucking it close to her chest.
“It always does,” she murmured, as the crowd finished the closing verse of the Lantern Song.
_____________________________
Later, back at their grandmother’s house, the cousins couldn’t stop talking about it.
“It’s weird,” said Nora, the youngest, sipping cocoa from a chipped mug. “Why would it always go out right before the wharf?”
“Maybe it’s bad luck,” said Jack. “Like a curse or something.”
“Or maybe,” said Elsie, thoughtful, “it’s waiting for someone to finish the walk.”
The room grew quiet. Outside, the wind sighed through the bare branches.
“Let’s do it,” Jack whispered. “Let’s finish it for her.”
Ten minutes later they were bundled again, flashlights in hand, boots crunching frost as they slipped into the still night. The town slept under a pale moon. The air smelled of salt and smoke, and their breath came in small, silver clouds.
They found Mrs. Callahan’s lantern resting on a bench near the community hall, its brass cold beneath the streetlamp’s glow. When Nora reached inside to clean the glass, her glove caught on something. A tiny click sounded.
“Wait,” she breathed. “I found something.”
Inside, hidden behind the base, was a folded piece of parchment — yellowed but intact. Under the beam of a flashlight, they could just make out faded ink:
“To my beloved —
I set sail tomorrow with fair winds behind me.
I shall return by Thanksgiving, bearing gifts from distant shores.
Keep a light for me, and I will find my way.”
The ink had softened with age, but the message felt alive — a promise sealed in hope.
Elsie looked toward the dark outline of the wharf. “He never made it home.”
Jack nodded slowly. “Then maybe we can help him find his way.”
Nora struck a match. The flame bloomed at once, steady and gold. Together they carried the lantern through the silent streets, down toward the water.
As they neared the spot where it had gone out before, the light began to falter — trembling, thinning. The children gathered close, cupping their hands around the fragile glow. None of them spoke. They only leaned in, willing the light to hold, summoning that quiet, boundless magic children carry — the kind born of belief, friendship, and simple goodness.
The flame steadied. Slowly, reverently, they continued toward the wharf. When they reached the end and held the lantern above the bay, its reflection rippled outward — a thousand golden sparks dancing across the dark water, as if the sea itself had been waiting for this very light.
No one moved for a long time. The night was cold, yet they felt warm clear through.
Morning sunlight spilled over frosted lawns when they arrived at Mrs. Callahan’s porch. She opened the door before they could knock.
“Hello, children,” she said, smiling as if she’d been expecting them all along.
The old brass lantern still glowed faintly, though the morning sun was bright. She smiled as they handed it to her. “Thank you for finishing the walk and bringing him home.” Somehow, she knew.
She pressed a small tin into their hands. On the lid, in looping script, were the words For the Lantern Crew.
“Next year,” she said, “I think you should lead the walk.”
The children grinned, pride and wonder lighting their faces. As they walked back down the path, Nora turned for one last look. The lantern in the window was still glowing — a warm, steady gold that didn’t fade, even in daylight.
And from that year on, the Lantern Walk no longer ended at the wharf’s edge, but at the very tip of the dock — where the water met the sky, and homecoming had, at last, found its light.
“A Cronefire Creations™ Seasonal Tale”
____________________________________
Author’s Note
I grew up in a small Rhode Island town barely a square mile wide. We are the Ocean State because no matter where you live you are never far from the ocean — its spirit was in the wind, the weather, and the stories people told. Autumn there meant neighbors bundling up, porch lights glowing early, and simple traditions that brought warmth to the cold. The Lantern Walk was born from that memory — a quiet reminder that even the smallest light can guide us home.
— Barbara C., Cronefire Creations™
Offer whatever name you wish to be known by at the hearth today — real or imagined — we look forward to welcoming your words into the circle.