The old town of Devithorne never had streetlights—only lanterns. And those lanterns were never electric. Every evening, just as the sun dipped below the cliffs, someone would walk the cobbled paths and light them, one by one, until the whole town glowed in soft amber.
But no one ever saw who lit them.
There were rumors, of course. Some said it was the mayor's grandfather who returned each night from the dead. Others whispered of a spirit bound to the town's fate. Children believed it was the Lantern Keeper—a mythical being who kept the darkness away.
When Mia moved to Devithorne, she didn't believe in myths.
She was 26, fresh from a burned-out city job, and desperately in need of quiet. Her inheritance from an estranged aunt included a creaky bookshop at the edge of the square and a small cottage above it. She arrived with three boxes of books, two plants that had somehow survived the urban smog, and a heart stitched together with threads of grief and confusion.
