It was the sound of humming that brought him back.
The boy stood quietly near the edge of a playground, half-hidden beneath the shade of a tamarind tree. The lantern at his side remained dim, but he didn't need its light to feel what lingered in the air.
A tune drifted faintly through the space between swings and rusted monkey bars. Uneven. Off-key. Familiar.
He followed the sound.
A boy sat alone beneath the jungle gym, no more than ten years old. His school uniform was crumpled, his shoes caked with dried mud. He had a small plastic lunchbox at his side, unopened. His lips moved with the melody, humming it under his breath.
It was the same song the girl once sang.
The one she never got to finish.
The boy with the lantern stepped closer.
The child looked up.
They stared at one another for a long, quiet moment. The younger boy's face was blank at first, but not scared—just guarded, like someone used to being noticed and then forgotten.
"Hi," the lantern boy said gently. "Do you come here often?"
The child nodded. "During lunch. I don't like eating with the others."
He sat beside him without asking.
"You like singing," the older boy said.
The child shrugged. "I used to sing with my sister."
"She sang for you during blackouts."
That made the child blink.
"How did you know that?"
The boy didn't answer directly. Instead, he reached into his bag and took out the harmonica. "She said you were her favorite audience."
The younger boy's eyes filled, just a little.
"Everyone says we shouldn't talk about her anymore," he muttered. "Mama hides her pictures. Papa only listens to the radio now. They think if they stay quiet long enough, she'll go away."
"But you remember."
He nodded.
"I still hum her songs," he whispered. "But only when I'm alone. I think she'd be sad if I forgot."
The lantern flickered faintly.
"She never wanted you to forget," the older boy said softly. "She just wanted you to be okay."
The younger boy stayed quiet.
After a moment, the lantern boy handed him the harmonica. "She wanted to sing for your father… but she didn't get the chance. Maybe you can finish the song with him."
The child's grip tightened on the harmonica. His hands trembled.
"I miss her."
"I know."
"I didn't say goodbye."
"She knew."
The playground was quiet again.
Then the younger boy asked, "Do you think she's still sad?"
"No," the older boy said. "She's free now. She forgave you. She's waiting for the rest of your family to forgive themselves."
The child looked up.
"I don't know if I can do that."
"You don't have to all at once," the older boy replied. "Just start by remembering her out loud. Let her voice live again."
For a while, neither of them spoke. The rainclouds above drifted further away, letting sun spill through the canopy in dappled warmth.
Then the younger boy raised the harmonica to his lips. The first notes came out rough, uneven. But the tune was there—buried beneath hesitation and years of silence.
The older boy listened.
And for a brief moment, the girl's voice returned—not as a ghost, but as a memory. A melody carried through her brother's breath.
The lantern pulsed.
Not to guide a soul, but to mark one more heart beginning to heal.
The boy stood, brushing off his pants.
"You're not alone," he said. "Even when it feels like you are."
The younger boy didn't reply—but he didn't stop playing either.
As the older boy turned to leave, the wind picked up—soft, swirling. The lantern shimmered.
And far in the distance, carried gently on the air, was the sound of laughter.
Her voice.
Alive.
Remembered.
The boy smiled.
Some souls don't linger to be saved.
Some simply stay to be remembered.