The first lantern was lit just as dusk settled over Winterridge.
It wasn’t planned that way. No countdown, no announcement. Mrs. Pinecrest simply struck a match, cupped her hands against the wind, and held the flame to the paper wick. Light bloomed—soft, amber, imperfect.
Someone gasped.
Then another lantern flickered to life. Then another.
Within minutes, the square glowed as if the town itself had exhaled after holding its breath for years.
Arielle stood near the fountain, Noah’s arm warm and solid around her shoulders, watching it unfold. The Festival of Lights had always existed—on schedules, in brochures, in traditions she’d kept her distance from. But this… this felt different.
Unscripted. Earned.
“I don’t remember it ever starting like this,” she murmured.
Noah smiled. “It n
