Edith sat back in her chair, arms crossed, eyes narrowed —
not at Calen,
but at something far beyond the crumbling walls of her house.
Edith:
(gruffly)
"It's easy for you to talk about carrying things, boy.
You're young.
You've still got room inside you."
She tapped her chest, right over her heart.
Edith:
"Me?
I'm filled up already.
No more space for anything new."
Calen shook his head slowly.
Calen:
(softly)
"Sometimes carrying doesn't mean adding more.
Sometimes it means letting go of the weight you don't have to hold anymore."
Edith gave a sharp, humorless laugh.
Edith:
"Let go?
And be what?
A sad old woman with nowhere to go and nothing left?"
The bitterness in her voice cracked, revealing the softer ache underneath.
Calen leaned forward, voice steady, gentle.
Calen:
"Or be someone who chooses to carry the love…
not just the loss."
Edith swallowed hard.
Her hands trembled slightly as she reached again for the photo album, hugging it close to her chest.
Edith:
(whispering)
"I'm scared."
The words were so soft they nearly disappeared into the creaking floorboards.
Calen:
(softly)
"Me too."
She looked at him — really looked — and for a moment, there was no old woman and no boy,
no broken house and no crumbling memories —
just two souls standing together in the same storm.
Edith:
(choking)
"If I leave…
who remembers me?"
Calen touched the lantern gently.
Calen:
"The ones you loved.
The ones you shaped.
The ones you shared yourself with."
He smiled faintly.
Calen:
"And maybe…
even a boy carrying a little light."
The clock on the mantel ticked steadily, counting seconds neither of them were willing to lose anymore.
Edith wiped at her eyes roughly.
Edith:
(gruff)
"You talk like someone twice your age."
Calen:
(smiling)
"Maybe some lights burn a little older inside."
She laughed, a sound that was half a sob.
Slowly, Edith rose from her chair.
She shuffled to a dusty cabinet in the corner of the room.
From it, she pulled out a small, battered music box.
She wound it once, twice, and set it down.
The soft, tinny notes of an old lullaby drifted into the air —
fragile, aching, beautiful.
She watched the tiny ballerina spin.
Edith:
(whispering)
"Charlie gave this to me the night before we married.
Said… whenever I was lonely, it would remind me I was never really alone."
She blinked rapidly, fighting the tears clawing their way up.
Edith:
"Maybe…
maybe it's time I trust him one more time."
Calen nodded, the lantern's glow reflecting in his eyes.
They sat in silence for a long time, letting the music box finish its song.
When it wound down, Edith closed the lid carefully.
She turned back to Calen, her shoulders a little straighter, her voice a little stronger.
Edith:
"Maybe I'll sell the house.
Find a little place by the water.
Plant a new garden."
Calen:
(soft)
"That sounds like a good place to carry memories."
Edith chuckled low in her chest.
Edith:
"And maybe I'll adopt a damn cat.
Always hated cats.
Charlie loved 'em."
Calen laughed softly.
Calen:
"He'd probably approve."
The lantern's soft glow painted the old living room in gold and shadows.
The cracked floorboards.
The sagging couch.
The worn photograph albums.
All of it still standing, still breathing.
But somehow, less heavy than before.
Edith shuffled back toward her chair, but paused halfway.
She turned, eyeing Calen with a sly, sharp look.
Edith:
(gruff)
"You know, if I were twenty years younger…
I'd have kept you around.
Made you fix the roof."
Calen smiled.
Calen:
"I'm not very good with roofs."
Edith:
"Neither was Charlie.
House still leaks like a sieve."
She laughed — really laughed — and the house seemed to sigh along with her, as if grateful to hear joy again.
Outside, the sky had darkened to a deep velvet blue, scattered with stars.
Calen stood slowly, slipping the lantern's strap over his shoulder.
He looked around one last time —
at the peeling wallpaper,
the faded photos,
the thousand tiny echoes of a life fiercely lived.
Calen:
(soft)
"Thank you for letting me sit a while."
Edith:
(winking)
"Thanks for reminding me how to stand again."
She shuffled toward the door, opening it wide.
The night air rushed in — cool, sweet with the scent of damp earth and distant riverwater.
Calen stepped onto the porch.
He turned back, hesitating.
Calen:
"Mrs. Winslow…?"
Edith:
(gruff)
"Just Edith, boy."
Calen:
(smiling)
"Edith.
You were never just the house.
You were the home."
For a moment, she looked like she might cry again.
But instead, she nodded — a small, stubborn, grateful nod.
Edith:
(quiet)
"And you're not just carrying a lantern, you know.
You're carrying people.
Pieces of them."
Calen smiled faintly.
Calen:
"Only until they're strong enough to carry themselves again."
Edith:
(soft)
"You take care, Lantern Boy."
Calen:
"You too."
He adjusted the lantern strap and stepped off the porch.
The road stretched ahead, quiet and endless under the starlight.
He didn't look back.
He didn't need to.
Some places —
some people —
you carried with you whether you turned around or not.
Edith stood on the porch for a long time, watching the tiny flickering light grow smaller and smaller in the distance.
When it finally disappeared over the hill, she pressed a hand over her heart, feeling something there she hadn't felt in a long, long time.
Not grief.
Not fear.
Not regret.
Hope.
Slowly, she closed the door.
And somewhere deep inside the battered walls of the house,
a stubborn little spark refused to go out.