In a quiet village nestled in the mountains of Kyoto, there lived a 14-year-old girl named Aiko. Every summer, the village held a lantern festival to honor the spirits of their ancestors. Aiko had always loved the festival—the glow of hundreds of lanterns floating into the night sky, the sweet scent of roasted chestnuts, and the sound of taiko drums echoing through the trees.
This year was different. It was the first summer since Aiko’s grandmother, Obaachan, had passed away. Obaachan used to make the most beautiful paper lanterns by hand, painting them with scenes from old folktales—foxes in the forest, dragons in the clouds, and cranes flying over rivers.
Aiko missed her terribly. She decided she would make her own lantern for the festival, one that would carry her love and memories into the sky.
But as the day approached, her lantern just wouldn’t come together. The paper tore, the frame bent, and her drawings never looked quite right. She was about to give up when she found a box in Obaachan’s old room labeled “For Aiko.”
Inside were delicate brushes, sheets of handmade washi paper, and a note:
“A lantern is not just about light. It’s about heart. Let yours shine.”
Encouraged, Aiko tried again. She painted a story—her and Obaachan sitting under a plum tree, sharing mochi, laughing. She worked late into the night, then carefully assembled the lantern.
At the festival, Aiko released her lantern into the sky. It rose slowly, wobbling a bit, then caught the wind and soared. For a moment, she thought she saw a shadow beside it—an old woman in a kimono, smiling.
The wind rustled the trees, and Aiko whispered, “Thank you, Obaachan.”
From that night on, Aiko made a new lantern every summer, each one telling a story of love, memory, and the bond that even time could not break.
