For the first time in many seasons, the village felt alive again. Strings of paper lanterns hung from roof to roof, glowing like small suns against the dusk. Music drifted through the air—drums, flutes, the steady clap of hands keeping time with laughter. Even the river Shokma seemed to hum beneath the sound, its silver surface rippling with light.
Rama stood at the edge of the crowd, her shawl drawn close, watching the people she once feared now dance in peace. Beside her, Rick carried a bundle of flowers for the offering table. Their eyes met briefly, and something gentle passed between them—an understanding that didn't need words.
"This is the first New Moon Festival since the troubles," Rama murmured.
Rick nodded. "It feels like a beginning."
The Lantern Bearer
At the heart of the celebration, Yuna twirled with a cluster of children, her laughter bright as bells. She wore a white dress that Rama had sewn from scraps and river-washed linen; around her wrists, Nancy had tied ribbons of pale gold. When the village elder called her name, she froze for a moment, startled.
"Yuna," the old woman announced, "you will carry the lantern to Shokma tonight. Let your light remind us that peace can return where anger once lived."
The crowd cheered, and Nancy squeezed Yuna's hands. "You'll be wonderful," she said. Her smile held no envy now—only pride.
As the drums quickened, Yuna lifted the lantern: a small globe of woven reeds and candlelight. The flame trembled, then steadied, reflecting in her dark eyes.
The Stranger by the River
When the procession reached the riverbank, torches lined the path. Yuna knelt to set the lantern upon the water, whispering a prayer for her mother, for Nancy, for everyone who had ever lost a home.
"Beautiful," a voice said softly behind her.
She turned. A young man stood a few paces away, tall and sun-browned, a wreath of willow leaves resting on his shoulder. His eyes were the color of the river at twilight—calm, deep, curious.
"I'm James," he said. "My father built the new bridge upriver. I've heard stories about the girl who tamed Shokma's temper."
Yuna laughed lightly. "Tamed? Hardly. The river only listens when it wishes to."
"Then it listens to you," James replied. The way he said it made her heart flutter.
They walked along the bank, their lanterns casting twin trails of gold across the water. Around them the festival roared, but the space they shared felt quiet, sealed away from everything else.
Nancy's Choice
From a distance, Nancy watched them. For a heartbeat, the old sting of jealousy pricked her chest. But then she saw Yuna's face—open, joyful, trusting—and the feeling dissolved. She turned instead to help a group of children light their candles, her laughter echoing above the music. Redemption, she realized, was not found in apology alone but in choosing joy for others.
Fire and Moonlight
Later, as the sky deepened to velvet, Rama and Rick joined the dancers. Their steps were slow, cautious at first, then easier, as though the years of sorrow had finally begun to loosen their hold. Rick's hand brushed hers; she didn't pull away. Somewhere nearby, Yuna and James moved among the crowd, their shoulders touching as they spun to the rhythm of drums and flute.
When the last note faded, the festival quieted into soft murmurs. James walked Yuna to the river's edge once more.
"Do you believe the river remembers?" he asked.
"I think it remembers everything," she said. "The good and the bad. But it forgives."
He smiled. "Then maybe it will remember this night too."
Yuna looked at him, and for the first time in her young life she felt the world tilt slightly, as if a door had opened in her chest. Not fear, not confusion—just warmth. When their hands met, the lantern light shimmered between their fingers like captured starlight.
Under the New Moon
By midnight, the village slept. Only a few lanterns still drifted along Shokma's calm current. Rama sat beside the fire, Rick near her, both silent but content. Nancy lay among the sleeping children, the ghost of a smile on her lips.
Yuna stood with James on the riverbank, watching the last lantern glide away.
"Every flame," she whispered, "is a wish."
"What did you wish for?" James asked.
She thought for a moment. "For the light to stay."
He reached for her hand again, gently. "Then let's keep it."
Above them, the new moon hung like a promise, thin and silver. The river carried its reflection onward—calm, endless, forgiving.