The next town wasn't on any map Calen had seen.
A cluster of houses stitched together by fields and dirt roads, wrapped in the scent of rain-soaked earth and wildflowers.
The lantern in his hand swayed gently as he walked.
Its light was barely noticeable under the broad afternoon sky, but Calen carried it anyway.
Some things were meant to be carried, even when no one else could see their worth.
He found himself wandering toward a narrow path lined with sunflowers taller than he was.
Beyond them, a small café sat half-forgotten, its paint peeling, a cracked sign swinging listlessly in the breeze.
"Daisy's."
The sign said.
As if the building itself still hoped for customers who would never come.
Calen pushed open the door.
A soft bell chimed somewhere deep inside, a sound almost too shy to be heard.
Inside, a woman stood behind the counter, wiping dust off jars with a rag.
She looked up when he entered, her dark hair pulled into a messy braid, loose strands framing her tired face.
Her apron was stained, her eyes heavy — not from lack of sleep, Calen thought, but from something deeper.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then she offered a small, polite smile.
The kind you give when you're not sure whether to hope or to brace yourself for disappointment.
Woman:
"We're… technically open.
Not much on the menu, though."
Calen set the lantern gently on the counter.
Calen:
"That's okay.
I'm just… passing through."
She nodded, setting the rag aside.
Woman:
"A traveler, huh?
Not a lot of those around here."
Calen:
(soft smile)
"I get that a lot."
She laughed — a short, dry sound — and motioned to a stool.
Woman:
"Sit, if you want.
Don't get much company these days."
Calen sat, the stool creaking under his weight.
The woman busied herself behind the counter, pretending to look for something, her hands moving restlessly.
After a moment, she spoke again.
Woman:
"Name's Mara.
This place used to be my mom's.
Well, still is, technically."
She glanced at him, waiting.
Calen:
"Calen."
Mara:
(nodding)
"Nice to meet you, Calen."
She pulled out two chipped mugs and filled them with something that smelled vaguely like old coffee and fresh mint.
Calen took a cautious sip.
It wasn't great.
But it was warm.
And sometimes, that was enough.
Mara leaned against the counter, watching him over her mug.
Mara:
"So.
What's your story, Lantern Boy?"
Calen tilted his head slightly at the nickname but didn't correct her.
Calen:
"No big story.
Just walking.
Listening."
Mara:
(smirking)
"Listening, huh?
You some kind of therapist?"
Calen:
(shrugging)
"Maybe.
Maybe just… someone who carries light for a while."
Mara snorted.
Mara:
"Well, good luck finding anyone here who wants to be saved."
She said it like a joke, but the bitterness clung to her words, heavy and sour.
Calen didn't push.
Instead, he let the silence stretch, offering it like an open hand.
After a long moment, Mara set her mug down harder than she meant to.
Coffee sloshed onto the counter.
She didn't bother wiping it up.
Mara:
(quietly)
"I used to dream about leaving this place.
Thought I'd go to the city. Start over.
Do something that mattered."
She laughed again, brittle.
Mara:
"But you know how it is.
You blink and suddenly…
you're scrubbing counters in your mom's empty café, wondering when exactly you got stuck."
Calen:
(softly)
"Why not leave?"
Mara looked at him sharply, as if daring him to say it again.
Then she sighed, shoulders slumping.
Mara:
"My mom's sick.
Real sick.
Some days she doesn't even remember who I am."
She rubbed her wrists absently, a nervous habit.
Mara:
"She raised me alone.
Worked this place from dawn 'til midnight.
Skipped meals to keep the lights on.
And now… she needs me."
She stared at her reflection in the stained glass of the counter.
Mara:
"I can't just walk away.
Even if I want to."
Calen rested his hands lightly around the lantern's handle.
Calen:
"What would she want?"
Mara flinched at the question, as if it hurt to even think about it.
Mara:
(whispering)
"She'd tell me to go.
Chase the life I want.
She always said… she didn't build this place so I'd be stuck in it."
Her voice broke.
She turned away, busying herself with wiping a counter that didn't need wiping.
Calen didn't move.
Didn't try to fix it.
Sometimes people didn't need fixing.
They just needed to break safely.
Minutes passed like that.
Just the sound of cloth against wood, the faint hum of the wind outside.
Finally, Mara dropped the rag.
Mara:
(low voice)
"But how do you leave someone who needs you?
How do you look at them and say,
'I'm choosing myself over you'?"
Calen turned the lantern slowly in his hands, the cracked glass catching the sunlight.
Calen:
"Maybe it's not about choosing yourself over them.
Maybe it's about trusting them enough to let you go."
Mara stared at him, blinking fast.
Mara:
"You ever had to do that?"
Calen:
(after a long pause)
"I had someone once.
They told me to keep walking.
Even when it hurt."
He didn't say more.
He didn't need to.
Something unspoken passed between them —
a shared understanding of the kind of ache that doesn't have a neat ending.
The door creaked as the wind pushed it open a crack.
Mara looked at it, then back at Calen.
Mara:
"If I leave…
there's no guarantee it'll be better."
Calen:
"No.
There isn't."
Mara:
"I could fail."
Calen:
"You could."
She gave a short, humorless laugh.
Mara:
"You're terrible at pep talks, you know that?"
Calen smiled faintly.
Calen:
"Maybe.
But you're strong enough to already know the answer."
Mara's hands clenched at her sides.
Mara:
(quietly)
"I'm scared."
Calen:
(gently)
"So was I."
She swallowed hard, staring down at the counter like it held all the answers she didn't want to face.
Mara:
"I'm the only thing she has left."
Calen:
"And you always will be.
Whether you stay… or walk your own road."
For a long time, Mara didn't speak.
The clock on the wall ticked loudly, each second heavy.
Then, almost too soft to hear:
Mara:
"If I leave…
I want to take something with me.
A piece of her.
Something to remind me."
Calen nodded.
Calen:
"What would she want you to remember?"
Mara wiped at her eyes quickly, pretending it was just dust.
Mara:
"She used to say…
'Bloom where you're planted, but don't be afraid to plant yourself somewhere new.'"
She laughed through her tears.
Mara:
"She's stubborn like that.
Still is.
Even when she forgets my name sometimes."
Calen leaned forward, the lantern's light catching the edge of the counter.
Calen:
"Maybe that's what you carry.
Not this place.
Not the walls.
But her stubbornness.
Her love."
Mara nodded slowly.
Something shifted in her eyes — not an answer, not a solution — but a beginning.
A tiny seed cracking open in the dark.