What makes some lanterns refuse to fly toward the stars?
Flora watches her paper lantern drift sideways through the night air. All around her, hundreds of glowing lights rise into the darkness like fireflies racing toward the moon. But hers floats left, then left again, bobbing through the crowded festival like it knows exactly where it wants to go.
"That's strange," she whispers. The lantern glows orange and gold, painted with tiny lotus flowers—the same design her great-grandfather used to make before he passed away last spring.
Flora runs after it. Her sneakers slap against the cobblestones as she weaves between families lighting their own lanterns. The festival stretches along the riverbank, filled with the sweet smell of sticky rice cakes and the heat of performers spinning fire on long ribbons. But Flora keeps her eyes glued to that sideways lantern.
It dips under a red silk banner. It swoops past a fortune-teller's tent. It squeezes between two stone lion statues that guard an old archway Flora has never noticed before.
She hesitates at the archway. Beyond it, a narrow path winds into shadows. The festival noise fades to a distant hum. Her mother always says to stay where the crowds are.
But the lantern pulses once, twice—almost like a heartbeat—and Flora steps through.
The path twists between ancient walls covered in vines. Moonlight spills through gaps in the leaves, creating silver patterns on the ground. Flora counts her steps to keep her courage up: thirty-seven, thirty-eight, thirty-nine.
The lantern stops.
Flora emerges into a hidden courtyard. Her breath catches in her throat.
