Entry Twenty-One: Among the Lanterns Left Unlit

I wandered deeper into the forgotten reaches of the forest, where the trees grew tall and thick, their boughs heavy with the weight of untold years. The further I went, the more the world seemed to slip away, swallowed by a silence too deep to name. Here, where the air hung heavy with the scent of earth and moss, the only sound was the quiet rustling of leaves, the occasional murmur of wind through branches that seemed to hold ancient secrets.

In this space, where time felt suspended, I came upon a clearing, a small forgotten glade hidden beneath a canopy of dark pines. It was a place that felt both familiar and foreign, as though it had been waiting for me to arrive. In the center of the glade stood an altar, weathered by centuries, but still holding the remnants of old rituals. Surrounding it were lanterns, dozens of them, their stone bases worn and etched with symbols too faded to read. But none of them were lit.

There was something haunting about the sight. Lanterns, meant to guide and protect, left cold and unlit in the heart of the forest. It was as though the flame of purpose had long been extinguished, and with it, any hope of finding the path they once illuminated. I approached one, reaching out to brush my fingers against the cold, smooth stone. It felt as though I were touching something forgotten, something lost in the folds of time. The lantern seemed to pulse with an energy that had not been fully spent, as if the wick still remembered its purpose, though it had not been ignited for years.

I wondered, briefly, who had placed these lanterns here and why. Had they once held meaning, a guide for those who wandered through these dark woods, seeking something that only the light of these lanterns could reveal? Or had they been left behind as offerings, tokens of a time when there was belief in the power of the light, in the warmth it could bring to the shadows? Now, they stood, abandoned, their light snuffed out by the weight of silence and time.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized that perhaps these lanterns were not meant to shine again. Maybe their purpose was not to light the way, but to serve as a reminder — that even in the darkest moments, when the path is unclear, there is still beauty in the waiting, in the unlit places. The lanterns, though cold, held a quiet dignity. They stood as sentinels, holding space for the forgotten and the lost, their silence a testament to endurance in a world that had long moved on.

I stepped back, allowing the silence to fill the glade once more. The shadows lengthened as the evening deepened, but the lanterns remained, untouched, their unlit flames a mystery in the growing dark. Perhaps one day, someone would come to light them again. Or perhaps, like me, they would simply remain there, among the shadows and the silence, waiting for the right moment to shine.

And as I turned to leave, I could not help but wonder — what do we leave behind when we are gone? What, in the end, is left unlit, waiting in the dark for someone to notice?

Perhaps we, too, are like these lanterns — forgotten by time, waiting for the right hands to bring us back into the light.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Entry Eight: The Forgotten Shrine of Hollowmark

There are places the forest does not offer freely. You do not find them by trail or map, nor by longing. They find you—when the light falls a certain way through the yew branches, and your breath hushes in your throat without warning. That is how I came upon the shrine. Not with intent, but with quiet. The glade was sunk into the land like a memory turned inward. Roots twisted through the earth like coiled veins, grasping the stone structure as if to keep it hidden. Ivy spilled from above in thick curtains, and moss, green with silver-threaded lichen, muffled every sound. In the center stood what once must have been a proud altar—now fractured, worn smooth by years of rain, snow, and silence. A circle of offerings encircled it, half-consumed by time: bone charms etched with unknowable glyphs, a rusted key, a child’s shoe with the toe cracked wide like a wound. Waxen figures had melted into shadowed puddles. And at the altar’s base, a lantern made of riverglass pulsed faintly—its glow t...
Read more

Entry Eleven: The Gathering Hollow

 I did not mean to find the hollow. It was not on the map I never carry, nor in the stories I was warned to forget. And yet, as I walked, the forest shifted—not suddenly, but like a long breath held too long. The air folded in, quieting birdsong and breeze alike. The hollow sat low in the earth, a perfect circle rimmed with stones no moss would grow on. Trees bent back from it, their roots exposed like fingers recoiling from heat. The grass within was colorless, faded like paper left to the sun too long. I stepped into it, and sound left me. There are places where the forest sings , where its song weaves through the trees like a forgotten hymn. Then, there are places where the forest remembers ancient echoes , its roots holding stories lost to time. But this place did neither. It was not a melody or a memory, but a silent guardian of forgotten woods , a place untouched by song and untouched by time. It stood as a threshold, untouched by the rhythms of life, a forgotten corner of th...
Read more

Entry Seventeen: Beneath the Oathroot Tree

 They say the Oathroot Tree remembers. Not in the way we do — not with names or dates or voices. But with the slow breath of the earth, with roots that twist through memory and bark that bears the weight of forgotten promises. It stands alone at the edge of the sunken glade, where mist clings low and the soil never fully dries, even in summer. I came to it not by path, but by instinct — a pull, like a whisper beneath the skin. Its bark is blackened in places, not with fire, but with time. Moss grows in thick spirals along its base, like fingers clinging to something lost. I touched it, as others have done before me, and I felt the quiet — that peculiar hush that sinks into you like twilight. Here, words fall away. Here, only the oath matters. There are markings near the roots — some carved, others left in offerings. Ribbons, dried herbs, small bones wrapped in cloth, a ring dulled with rust. I added mine: a strip of parchment, inked with a promise I will not speak aloud. The Oat...
Read more