Night fell early over Grace River. The clouds had thickened again—not enough to threaten rain, but enough to blur the stars. From the clinic porch, Amara watched the town's faint golds wake in doorways one by one—little domestic suns keeping company with the dark. Somewhere beyond the market square, the council's new fund box glinted whenever a lantern passed, a small coin of light nailed beside the library wall.
She was closing the windows when the widow arrived. The same woman who had spoken at the town hall—barefoot, shawl red as dusk. Tonight her steps were slower, her shadow longer. She carried a lantern cupped in both hands, its flame trembling inside the glass like something unsure whether to stay.
"Doctor," she said, pausing at the threshold, "it's burning too bright."
Amara smiled. "That's a good problem to have."
The widow shook her head. "Not for me. I promised to bring it to the clinic, but I lit it before I left home. Now the oil runs low, and the path back will be darker than before."
Amara stepped aside. "Then we'll share its light while we can."
The widow set the lantern on the counter. The glow leaned against the walls, softening the room's hard edges. Daniel, mending the strap of a medicine satchel in the back, came when he heard voices.
"Evening," he said.
"Evening," she replied, eyes flicking to the old basin where candle stubs waited to be melted down. "You keep light like you keep records," she murmured. "Never wasting, always saving."
"We try," Daniel said, smiling. "The town's learning to store its hope in small jars."
The widow studied the lantern. "This one was my husband's," she said. "He made it in his workshop—before the fever took him. It burns cleaner than the new kind, but it eats oil faster. I didn't know until tonight."
Amara heard the other flame flickering—the grief one. "Why bring it here?" she asked gently.
"Because I heard the clinic collects what the wind forgets," the widow said. "Because the light in my house began to feel like debt."
A distant rumble moved across the valley, the kind of thunder that never intends to arrive. Amara poured tea and warmed the widow's hands around the cup.
"My husband mended the fishermen's lamps," the widow went on. "He called them the town's eyes. After he died, I kept this one lit by my bed. Every night it reminded me what mercy costs—every refill, every turn of the wick. I told myself I'd stop when the grief cooled. But it didn't. It only grew polite."
Daniel leaned on the doorframe. "And now?"
"Now I wonder if mercy should be so expensive," she said, the flame mirrored in her pupils. "Every night I feed this light and think, 'He is gone, but the oil still burns.' Maybe it's time I let the dark do its job."
Amara turned the lantern slightly; her shadow steadied the flame. "Mercy isn't costly because it's wrong," she said. "It's costly because it refuses to quit—even after loss."
The widow's mouth softened. "You sound like your father."
"I hope that's true," Amara said.
A draft slid under the door; the flame guttered, caught itself. Daniel latched the wood before the light could fail.
"Oil's nearly out," he said. "We can refill it."
The widow shook her head. "No. Let it end tonight. I'll carry it home empty. It will feel honest."
"But honest isn't always kind," Amara said.
"Neither is love," the widow answered, with a breath of humor.
Silence pooled—tick of cooling metal, the quiet sigh of wind along the eaves. Daniel opened a cupboard and set a small bottle on the counter. "In case you change your mind."
"You'd give this freely?" she asked.
"Someone gave it to me," he said. "I keep passing it along."
The widow rested her hand on the bottle but did not take it. "When he was sick," she said, voice lower, "I measured oil like time. He'd fall asleep and I'd lift the lantern to his face to make sure he still belonged to breath. I thought if the wick held steady, he would too." She glanced at Amara. "You know how the mind bargains."
Amara nodded. "It bargains like a market at dusk."
A scrape sounded at the door. A child peered in—Emeka, lantern-bold eyes reflecting the clinic's flame. "Mama says we mustn't waste light," he said, solemn as a bell, "but also not fear the dark."
"Both are true," Amara said. "Carry that home."
He nodded, satisfied, and vanished into the soft street.
The widow watched the doorway long after the boy had gone. "Children walk between worlds like it's a corridor," she whispered.
The lantern burned lower. The glass haloed with soot. The room looked briefly older without the extra gold.
"Will you keep any of his things?" Daniel asked.
"A few," she said. "His tools. An old apron that still smells of oil and cedar. But I don't want a museum. I want a house that remembers how to cook."
"Then let this light teach you how to spend it," Amara said. "Not to prove love, but to practice it."
"Practice," the widow repeated. "That I can bear."
When the flame finally thinned to a whisper and went out, the darkness arrived gently, as if it had been waiting in the hall. The widow cradled the warm lantern, as one holds a sleeping child.
"I thought mercy would feel lighter when shared," she said. "It doesn't. It only changes the kind of weight it gives back."
"That's how you know it's real," Amara replied. "Only what costs us stays."
The widow's smile reached her eyes this time. "I'll come tomorrow," she said. "To refill this. Or myself."
"We'll be here," Amara answered.
She stepped outside. For a heartbeat, the empty lantern caught a stray glint from another doorway and flashed like a wink from the past. Then she disappeared into the soft murmur of the lane.
Daniel exhaled. "She reminds me of the flood," he said. "Everything she touches tries to learn how to survive her absence."
"And yet she walks home with empty light," Amara murmured.
"Maybe that's faith," he said. "Carrying what isn't shining because you remember when it did."
After quiet settled, Amara opened the River Register. She hesitated, then wrote:
The widow's lantern — Burned to its end. Mercy's oil counted, not wasted.
Prescription: Share the flame before it's gone; refill the hands that carried it.
She left space and added, smaller, as if speaking to the page: Some costs repay themselves in courage.
From the road came the steady glow of another lamp moving past—the town echoing itself in kindness. Somewhere, laughter sparked and faded, quick as a match, leaving the air warmer than before.
Daniel reappeared with a rag and the bottle of oil. "We should top off our own," he said, pointing to the brass lamp by the door.
Amara nodded. "And leave the door a little," she added, smiling at their ritual.
"For whom?" he asked.
"For whoever loses their light on the path," she said. "So they know where to find another."
They stood a moment, listening to Grace River breathe—zinc ticking, night birds calling one thin note, the river's hush stitching the dark. Then Daniel refilled the clinic lamp with slow, careful patience, and Amara struck the flame. It lifted and held, modest but certain, and the room remembered itself again.