Mara wiped at her cheeks again, this time not bothering to pretend.
She came around the counter, pulling off her apron with a rough yank, tossing it over a chair.
Mara:
(voice trembling)
"What if she forgets me completely one day?"
Calen stood quietly, the lantern's light brushing the worn wood of the floor.
Calen:
"She won't."
Mara gave a sad smile.
Mara:
"You don't know that."
Calen:
(gently)
"She doesn't have to remember your name.
She'll remember you in the way she rests easier when you're near.
In the way her heart feels lighter, even if her mind forgets."
Mara pressed her hand against her mouth, squeezing her eyes shut.
Outside, the sun dipped lower, the sky deepening into bruised colors of gold and violet.
She opened her eyes slowly.
Mara:
(softly)
"I want to be brave.
Like she was."
Calen:
"You already are."
The words slipped out before he could think about them.
Simple. True.
Mara looked at him like she wanted to believe him — desperately.
Like a drowning person clinging to the shape of a rope they couldn't yet see.
Mara:
"You sound sure."
Calen:
(smiling faintly)
"I've carried a lantern through a lot of dark places.
Sometimes you can tell when someone's already carrying their own."
She laughed again, this time with real warmth.
It cracked something open between them — a shared, small hope neither had dared touch before.
Mara crossed the room to an old shelf near the café's dusty window.
She dug through a box until she pulled something out:
an old, battered photograph.
She handed it to Calen carefully, like it might fall apart in his hands.
The photo was faded and crinkled.
It showed a younger Mara, maybe ten years old, standing proudly next to a woman with wild curly hair and a wide, stubborn smile.
Behind them, the café looked almost new — bright paint, flowers in the windows.
Mara:
"She built this place with her bare hands.
Said it was our 'garden.'
Said she planted her dreams here."
Mara swallowed hard, her thumb brushing the edge of the photograph.
Mara:
"I thought…
if I left…
I'd be betraying everything she worked for."
Calen studied the photo, then looked back at Mara.
Calen:
"Maybe…
she didn't build it to trap you.
Maybe she built it to give you the roots you needed, so you could grow."
Mara blinked at him, her mouth trembling slightly.
Mara:
(whispering)
"Grow…
somewhere else."
Calen:
(nodding)
"That's still honoring her.
You're still carrying her dreams.
Just planting them somewhere new."
Tears slipped down Mara's cheeks, slow and silent.
But she didn't turn away this time.
She stood straighter.
Took a deep, shuddering breath.
Let herself feel it — the grief, the fear, the love — all tangled together.
And then she smiled.
Small. Wobbly. But real.
Mara:
"I'm scared."
Calen:
(softly)
"Good.
It means it matters."
The bell over the door chimed as a soft breeze stirred the dusty air.
Mara tucked the photograph carefully into the pocket of her jacket.
She looked around the café — really looked — as if memorizing every crack, every smudge, every faded corner.
Mara:
"I think…
it's time."
Calen nodded.
He picked up his lantern, the flame inside flickering bravely against the dusk.
Mara:
"You're… really not gonna tell me it'll all be okay, are you?"
Calen:
(smiling slightly)
"No.
But I'll say this—
you're strong enough to find out."
Mara laughed — a low, broken sound — but there was a fire in it now.
A stubbornness that reminded Calen of the woman in the photograph.
She pulled off her apron for the last time, hanging it carefully on a hook behind the counter.
Mara:
"You're not just carrying a lantern, you know.
You're carrying people's hearts too."
Calen:
(quietly)
"Maybe.
Maybe I'm just carrying pieces until they're ready to carry them again."
Mara stepped toward him, impulsively wrapping him in a fierce hug.
Calen stiffened for a moment — surprised — then slowly returned it, awkward but genuine.
When they pulled apart, she wiped at her eyes again.
Mara:
"Thank you, Calen."
Calen:
(softly)
"Thank you, Mara."
She stepped back toward the door.
The sky outside was deep purple now, stars beginning to prick at the edges.
She paused, one hand on the handle, then glanced back over her shoulder.
Mara:
"If you ever find yourself lost again…
find me.
I'll buy you a coffee that doesn't taste like disappointment."
Calen laughed softly, the lantern's light dancing between them.
Calen:
"I'll hold you to that."
And then she was gone —
stepping into the night, into the unknown,
carrying a piece of her mother's stubborn, beautiful spirit with her.
Calen stood alone for a while in the quiet café.
The lantern flickered beside him, casting soft, stubborn light across the floorboards.
He looked around once —
at the cracked walls, the dusty jars, the worn-out memories stitched into every inch of the place.
Then he lifted the lantern,
and stepped back onto the road,
carrying the light forward.
Always forward.