In a quiet fishing village on the northern coast of Japan, there lived a 14-year-old girl named Aiko. Her family had tended the lighthouse for generations, guiding boats safely through fog and storm. But the old lighthouse had long since stopped working, and the sea now carried fewer boats.
Each evening, Aiko climbed the stone steps of the lighthouse, even though it was no longer needed. She brought with her a paper lantern, painted with red cranes by her grandmother before she passed. Her parents told her it was pointless — that electricity had replaced tradition — but Aiko believed otherwise.
“You don’t understand,” she would whisper to the wind. “There’s something still out there.”
One misty night, a fierce storm rolled in, howling like an angry spirit. The power went out across the village. As the sea raged, Aiko lit her paper lantern and hurried to the lighthouse. Wind tugged at her yukata, and waves crashed below like giants waking from slumber.
At the top, she placed the lantern in the old glass chamber and held it high. As the flame flickered, something stirred in the dark waters — a faint glow, like stars submerged in the sea.
Suddenly, a shape emerged — a battered fishing boat, its hull cracked, its light dead. Aiko’s lantern shone just bright enough to guide it toward the shore. When the boat landed safely, the crew stumbled out — fishermen long presumed lost in a typhoon years ago.
The village awoke in awe. Elders whispered of ancient spirits, and how the sea sometimes swallowed time. The mayor, once skeptical, had the lighthouse restored and appointed Aiko the official Lantern Keeper — a title not used in over 100 years.
From that day on, whenever the fog crept in or storms rumbled in the distance, Aiko would light her grandmother’s lantern. And some nights, if you looked closely from the cliffs, you could see lights dancing far out on the water — answering hers.
