The village was quieter than usual.
The storm clouds from the night before still lingered overhead, muting the morning sun into a dull gray. The boy and Calix walked slowly, side by side, the ribbon tucked carefully in the boy's palm—protected like something sacred.
It wasn't much.
Just a strip of purple fabric. Faded, fraying at one end. A childish floral pattern barely visible now. But it had been tied around Lanie's hair, even in death. Even after everything else had been taken.
She held onto it like it was the last piece of home.
Now, it was time to return it.
They stopped in front of a modest wooden house nestled at the edge of a hill, where the grass grew long and the fence leaned with age. Pale blue curtains shifted behind dusty windows. An old pair of sandals sat outside, worn thin at the heels.
The boy hesitated at the gate.
"You okay?" Calix asked quietly.
The boy nodded, though his chest felt heavy.
He stepped forward.
He didn't know who would open the door. He didn't know how they'd react to the ribbon. But the flame had told him—this was where she belonged.
He knocked gently.
Footsteps, slow and unsure, padded behind the door. A woman opened it halfway, peering through the narrow gap. She was in her late thirties, maybe early forties, with eyes too tired for her age. Her hair was pinned messily behind her head. Her face looked pale—half-shadowed, as though the years had stopped lighting it completely.
"Yes?"
The boy bowed slightly. "I'm sorry to bother you, ma'am. I… I found something. I think it belonged to your daughter."
Her expression didn't change—at first.
Then the boy held out the ribbon.
Everything stopped.
The woman's hand flew to her mouth. Her body trembled as if struck by a wind only she could feel.
Her fingers reached out. Slowly. As though touching a ghost.
When they brushed against the ribbon, she collapsed to her knees without a word.
"Mama?"
A small voice came from within the house. A little boy, maybe seven, peeked through the hallway—barefoot, holding a wooden spinning top.
The woman looked up at the boy and Calix, her lips shaking.
"Where… Where did you find this?"
The boy knelt beside her, speaking softly. "Near the old well, on the eastern ridge. There was a girl… she led us there. Her name was Lanie."
The name.
She hadn't heard it spoken aloud in years.
Her eyes flooded with tears.
"She was only nine," the mother whispered. "One moment she was playing in the yard, and then… she was gone. Vanished. We searched for days. Weeks. Everyone said maybe she wandered off too far. But I knew she would never leave Bunny behind."
The boy's voice caught. "She had him. In the end. She never let go."
The woman sobbed quietly, holding the ribbon to her chest.
"I waited. I lit candles. I left her favorite biscuits on the windowsill for weeks, thinking maybe her spirit was nearby. But nothing ever came back. I thought she was taken by something dark. I thought I'd never hear her name again."
"You didn't forget her," the boy said. "That's why she made it back."
She looked up at him, eyes red.
"Did she suffer?"
The boy shook his head. "She was scared. But she remembered your lullaby. And your voice. She found her way because of that."
The little boy at the door stepped forward slowly.
"Was she… a ghost?" he asked.
The boy hesitated. Then nodded. "A little lost. But not anymore."
The mother wrapped her arms around her son.
"I should have protected her," she whispered. "I should have been watching."
"You loved her," the boy replied. "That was enough."
She pressed the ribbon to her lips, kissed it like it was her child's forehead.
Then she stood.
Wordlessly, she walked back inside, disappeared for a moment, then returned with a framed photograph. It was old, and slightly curled at the corners.
In it, a girl with pigtails and a wide smile held a lopsided birthday cake. On her wrist was the same purple ribbon.
"I haven't looked at this in years," she whispered.
She walked to the windowsill, cleared it, and placed the photo gently in the center.
Beside it, she laid the ribbon.
"I told her I'd wait. I think I just forgot how to hope."
The boy stepped back, Calix beside him.
"She remembered," the boy said.
"And I will, too," she replied. "Every day."
They walked home in silence.
Only when they reached the edge of the village did Calix speak again.
"I didn't think it would hit that hard."
The boy didn't answer.
"I mean… she waited all this time. And they never forgot her. But they never moved on, either."
The boy looked down at the lantern.
It glowed softly—not out of urgency, but as if sighing. At peace.
"I think that's what grief is," he said quietly. "Not moving on. Just learning how to carry it."
They walked the rest of the way without another word.
And that night, for the first time in weeks, the lantern stayed dark.
No soul called.
No light flickered.
Just silence.
And sleep.
And the memory of a girl with a ribbon who found her way home.