The sun sank slowly behind the hills.
By evening, the air was filled with the faint hum of voices, laughter, and music from the town square.
The festival lights glowed like small stars.
Aria helped Lucia gather the last of the flower garlands from the courtyard. The ribbons they had hung that morning now moved lazily in the wind, colors fading into the night.
The river behind the church caught the reflection of the lanterns already floating downstream — small lights drifting together, carrying prayers, hopes, and bits of laughter into the night.
Aria's eyes still on the water. "They're already letting them go."
Lucia came to stand beside her. "They start early every year. People can't wait to see their wishes float away."
"…Do they ever come true?"
Lucia smiled softly.
"Maybe not the way people expect. But sometimes, the wish isn't for the world to change — it's for the heart to rest."
Aria nodded quietly. The water shimmered as the first lanterns drifted past the bridge.
Later that night, the churchyard filled with soft voices.
The children ran about, carrying unlit paper lanterns. Each one held a candle inside, waiting to be set free.
Lucia handed one to Aria.
"I wasn't planning to join."
"Too bad."
Aria looked at the lantern — thin paper, pale blue, fragile between her hands.
She held it close "…What should I write?"
"Anything"
Aria hesitated, then knelt by the small table where the ink and brush were set.
When she finished, she lifted the lantern toward Lucia.
The riverbank was full of light by the time they reached it.
People stood in small groups, holding their lanterns close.
The air was cool, the night clear. The sound of the crowd blended with the music from the square.
Aria stepped closer to the water, holding her lantern carefully.
Lucia said softly, "When you let go, don't look away too fast. They say your heart follows it for a while."
Aria crouched, lowering her lantern to the water.
The flame flickered once, then steadied, its reflection rippling with the current.
The lantern drifted away, joining the others — a slow constellation of moving light.
Lucia stayed beside her as the crowd began to thin.
The children chased each other, their laughter soft against the sound of the river.
Aria sat on the grass, watching the lights fade downstream.
Aria turned to her.
"…Do you ever miss people, even after you've forgiven the world for taking them?"
"Every day."
Aria looked back at the river.
Lucia rose, brushing off her skirt.
"Come on. The night's getting colder."
Aria stood, following her toward the church gate.
Before stepping inside, she looked back one last time.
The lanterns had grown small in the distance — tiny stars floating away into the dark.
And for a brief, fleeting moment,
she thought maybe one of them had carried her wish farther than she ever could.
That night, when she lay in bed, the sound of the river still filled her ears.
She thought of color — of the petals, the ribbons, the lights.
And in her dreams, she saw Sophia again — not in the mansion, but standing by the river, smiling as the lanterns passed.
***
The festival ended, but the ribbons still hung in the courtyard.
Some had come loose during the night, caught in the branches, fluttering softly in the breeze.
Lucia said they'd leave them there until the rain took them away.
Aria stood by the window, watching the sunlight catch on the remaining ones.
It was quiet now. Everything last night — all gone.
Only the river remained, still carrying its lanterns far downstream.
Lucia entered with a basket of folded laundry.
"You're awake early," she said.
"I couldn't sleep."
"You've been saying that all week."
Aria smiled faintly.
"Maybe I'm too used to quiet."
Lucia set the basket down and leaned on the windowsill beside her.
"Or maybe you've had enough of it."
Aria looked at her.
Lucia nodded. "You've been thinking about leaving since the festival"
"…I didn't think that was possible."
Lucia laughed softly.
Aria turned back to the window. The air smelled of grass and fading blossoms.
The thought she had been avoiding finally came out.
"I want to go south," she said. "To see what's there."
Lucia nodded once, not surprised. "The road to the capital's long, but clear this time of year. People say it's full of artists and travelers."
"…That's what I heard too."
"You've already made up your mind."
Aria didn't answer. She didn't need to.
Lucia sighed, not out of sadness, but acceptance.
"Then you'll need food, and shoes that won't fall apart this time."
"I'll manage."
The rest of the morning passed in quiet rhythm.
Lucia packed a small satchel — bread, dried fruit, a can of water.
Aria paused, holding the bundle carefully. "…Thank you."
Lucia smiled.
When the afternoon sun reached the courtyard, the children gathered to see her off.
They clung to her skirt, asking where she was going, when she'd come back.
Aria knelt to meet their eyes. "I don't know yet," she said softly. "But I'll return."
"Promise?" one of them asked.
Lucia stood by the gate, arms crossed, pretending not to watch.
When Aria finally approached, she said,
"You've made quite the mess."
"I didn't mean to."
The sky had turned golden.
The river glimmered beside the road, calm and endless.
Lucia adjusted the strap of Aria's bag, as she had done countless times before. "It's a long way," she said.
"I know."
Lucia hesitated, then added quietly,
"And if you find something worth staying for… don't run from it."
Aria nodded.
Lucia's smile trembled slightly.
The bell rang once — not for prayer, but for farewell.
Aria looked back toward the church, the garden, the small lives that had filled her quiet days.
Aria looked back.
Lucia shook her head.
Aria smiled — soft.
It's not like this was their first farewell.
The road stretched out before her, winding past the fields and into the faint blue haze of spring.
She walked slowly at first, listening to the sound of the river beside her, the soft rustle of the grass, the hum of distant birds.
The wind carried the faint scent of lilac.
She kept walking.
***
The river widened as she walked.
By midday, it had become too broad to see the opposite bank. The air carried the scent of salt — faint, but growing stronger.
The docks stretched along the shore — wooden piers, crates, men calling to one another as they loaded goods for the south.
The riverboats rested there, their sails half-lowered, ropes creaking with the current.
Aria stood still for a while, the sound of the water filling her chest.
A sailor noticed her hesitation. "You heading somewhere, miss?"
She nodded. "South."
He pointed toward a smaller vessel by the end of the dock. "That one's bound for Castelmare. Might take a week or two, depending on the wind. But it'll get you there."
"Thank you."
Aria looked at the slow, heavy current.
The man blinked and carried on.
By late afternoon, the sky had turned pale and hazy.
She paid her fare and stepped aboard. The deck smelled of wood and salt.
Other passengers settled quietly — merchants, travelers, a few soldiers returning south.
The river groaned as the current began to pull.
Ropes were untied. Oars dipped. The world shifted beneath her feet.
Aria stood near the stern, watching the docks drift away. The church bell sounded once, faint and distant — perhaps real, perhaps only memory.
She didn't look back.
The wind brushed through her hair as the boat moved downstream.
The current caught it, carrying her, turning the land she knew into something small and far.
Night came early.
Lanterns hung along the deck, their light trembling across the dark surface of the river.
The sound of the water was deep, endless.
Somewhere in it, she thought she could hear the echoes of voices, laughter, footsteps fading — all the things she had left behind.
She opened her satchel, running her fingers over her brushes and folded papers.
They were light, yet felt heavier than anything she owned.
Above her, the sky stretched wide — cloudless, pale, infinite.
The wind carried her away, blending them with the endless of the water.
The boat moved steady through the dark,
cutting through the water like a thought that refused to fade.
Beyond the mist, the kingdom waited — vast and unknown.
And somewhere far ahead,
the capital's lights would one day appear.
But for now,
only the water spoke.