The shoes were still damp when he wrapped them in his scarf.
Not from the rain anymore—but from something heavier. As if sorrow itself had soaked into the worn soles and stitching. The girl hadn't asked him to return them. She hadn't said anything at all once her form faded into the light. But that didn't matter. The shoes remained, and so did a question she never got to ask.
"Do they still think of me?"
The boy knew. She had moved on, yes. But not all of her story had reached peace.
The lantern still glowed faintly at his side—not pulsing like before, but smoldering. A soft, patient warmth. A reminder: the soul had passed, but the regrets hadn't vanished. Not all of them.
There were voices still unheard. Wounds still waiting.
So he walked.
He crossed roads still wet from the storm, passed vendors closing their stalls early, and turned down a quiet lane lined with tangled trees and rusted fences. At the end of the street stood a small house with a blue gate. The garden was overgrown. The bamboo swing on the porch was still. The curtains were drawn like tired eyes.
He didn't know who lived there.
But the flame knew.
And it brought him here.
He paused at the gate, heart heavy.
The last time he had knocked on a door, it had been his own. That morning. When he called out for his grandmother and received only silence. When the scent of her shawl lingered in the air, but the room where she should have been sat hollow and still.
He gripped the bundle tighter and stepped forward.
The woman who opened the door looked surprised, but not alarmed—just worn. She had the face of someone who had aged more from grief than time. Her hair was tied back loosely, eyes shadowed with years of mourning that never fully reached the surface.
She looked at the boy. Then at the bundle in his arms.
"Yes?"
He bowed slightly and held the cloth toward her.
"I found these near the bridge," he said. "I believe they belonged to your daughter."
She reached out with trembling hands. As she unwrapped the cloth and saw the shoes—black school shoes, still slightly damp, one with a faint cartoon sticker inside—her knees gave way.
The boy caught her gently as she collapsed to the floor.
She didn't speak. She just held the shoes tightly, sobs rising from somewhere deep inside her chest.
Moments passed.
Then a voice from inside called out. "Lena?"
A man stepped into the hallway. Older, broad-shouldered, grease still on his hands from working. His expression hardened in confusion until he saw the shoes.
He froze.
"Those were… they said the water took everything."
The boy stood and bowed again. "They were left behind. I think… she wanted them to come home."
The man's jaw clenched. He slowly walked over and knelt beside his wife.
No one said anything. The only sound was the ticking of a clock on the wall and the distant rustle of leaves outside.
They let the boy inside.
The living room was dim. A rosary hung near the door. A television sat unplugged in the corner beneath a cloth. A faded photo frame was turned face-down on a small shelf.
The karaoke machine by the window was covered in dust.
"She used to sing all the time," the mother whispered, wiping her eyes. "Even when we told her to stop. Loud. Off-key. She didn't care."
"She'd sing for her little brother during blackouts," the father said, sitting beside her. "Said her voice was better than candles."
The mother gave a breath of laughter that caught in her throat.
"He still sings some of her songs," she said. "When he thinks we're not listening."
The boy sat quietly, listening.
"She wanted to be a singer," the father continued. "She said she'd make us proud. We told her to focus on her studies first. Life doesn't wait for dreamers."
The mother looked down. "The night before… we argued. Her grades were slipping. We were scared for her future. I said things I regret."
"She died running to school," the father said. "Trying not to be late. Trying not to disappoint us again."
The boy finally spoke.
"She wasn't angry. She was afraid. She thought she failed you. But she loved you too much to be angry."
They both looked at him. The woman's eyes filled again.
"I just wanted her to know I was proud," the mother whispered. "Even if she got things wrong sometimes."
The boy nodded.
"She never got to say it, but she tried. Everything she did—every mistake—was just her way of reaching for your approval."
The father leaned back in his chair, wiping his face with his hands.
"I packed away her things after the funeral. I couldn't look at them. I thought if I buried it all, the pain would stay buried too."
"But it didn't," the boy said softly. "It stayed. On both sides."
The lantern glowed faintly on the floor beside him.
"She said she never got to sing for you," the boy added, looking at the father. "She wanted to. For your birthday."
The father stared at the shoes. Then at the boy. Then at the dusty karaoke machine.
"I taught her to play the harmonica," he murmured. "She used to try and match my songs. She was terrible at it. But she never stopped."
The boy reached into his bag and placed the harmonica on the table.
"She remembered."
The father took it slowly in his hand.
The mother reached over, placed the shoes gently beside it, and whispered, "She waited for us to say it, didn't she?"
"She waited," the boy said, "for you to forgive her. And yourselves."
The room fell quiet.
And then—shakily, gently—the father lifted the harmonica to his lips.
The first few notes were rough. But the melody returned, trembling but familiar.
The mother hummed softly beside him.
A song from the days before the silence.
Before the accident.
Before the grief.
And in that moment, they didn't sing for loss.
They sang for love.
The lantern pulsed. Not brightly—but warmly. Fully.
Finally.
Not because a soul had been guided.
But because those left behind had found the courage to forgive.
The boy stood and walked to the door.
Outside, the sun broke through the clouds, casting golden light onto the path.
And just as he stepped through the gate, he heard it.
Not words. Not music.
Just a giggle.
Her voice.
Joyful.
Free.
He smiled.
"They remember," he whispered. "And that's enough."
And the lantern, now clear and calm, fell into a peaceful sleep.