"The Lantern of September" (Image & Text Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)
On the back porch, where summer still lingered in blossoms and faded paint, an old lantern stood guard. By day it was ordinary—a glass belly holding a stub of candle, forgotten among the chairs and flowerpots. But when September came, the lantern stirred.
Each evening, just as the sun slipped low and shadows stretched long, the flame lit itself. It did not blaze; it glowed gently, like a heart remembering. And in its glow, the air changed. The garden hummed with crickets, yes, but also with voices too soft to be ordinary sound. Echoes of summers past drifted near—laughter on porch swings, the hush of a first kiss, the rustle of leaves from long-ago winds.
If you sat in the wooden chair beside it and kept still, the lantern would show you something. A vision, perhaps—a memory that was yours, or one you had forgotten, or even one that belonged to someone before you. September’s gift was not to promise forever, but to remind: this moment matters, because all moments do.
On one such evening, a passerby stopped at the gate, drawn by the glow. They leaned close, and in the shimmer saw a vision of their grandmother’s kitchen—apple pies cooling, steam rising, laughter carrying like warm music. Tears welled, but so did a smile. When they turned back, the lantern stood quiet again, the flame gone out. Only the faint scent of apples remained.
The next morning, the porch was the same: flowers nodding, wood weathered, lantern still. Yet September had brushed its quiet magic across the night, reminding anyone who cared to notice that memory is never gone. It only waits for the light to show the way.
~Wylddane
Each evening, just as the sun slipped low and shadows stretched long, the flame lit itself. It did not blaze; it glowed gently, like a heart remembering. And in its glow, the air changed. The garden hummed with crickets, yes, but also with voices too soft to be ordinary sound. Echoes of summers past drifted near—laughter on porch swings, the hush of a first kiss, the rustle of leaves from long-ago winds.
If you sat in the wooden chair beside it and kept still, the lantern would show you something. A vision, perhaps—a memory that was yours, or one you had forgotten, or even one that belonged to someone before you. September’s gift was not to promise forever, but to remind: this moment matters, because all moments do.
On one such evening, a passerby stopped at the gate, drawn by the glow. They leaned close, and in the shimmer saw a vision of their grandmother’s kitchen—apple pies cooling, steam rising, laughter carrying like warm music. Tears welled, but so did a smile. When they turned back, the lantern stood quiet again, the flame gone out. Only the faint scent of apples remained.
The next morning, the porch was the same: flowers nodding, wood weathered, lantern still. Yet September had brushed its quiet magic across the night, reminding anyone who cared to notice that memory is never gone. It only waits for the light to show the way.
~Wylddane
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