A pale dawn sky still lingered at the horizon when the Wanderer noticed faint wisps of smoke curling up from behind a rocky outcrop. He paused, shifting the lantern’s weight in his hand. Days had passed since he’d left the merchant at the crossroads, following the narrow path east in search of the caravan grounds. So far, the trail had been nothing but endless plains. This thin column of smoke—wavering in the cool morning air—offered a subtle suggestion of human presence.

  Curiosity nudged him forward. He made his way around a boulder carved by centuries of wind, its edges smooth as river stone. Beyond it, the land dipped into a shallow gully where a ring of rocks contained a small, sputtering fire. Hunched beside the flames was a lone figure—a woman dressed in simple, earth-toned clothes. Her hair was cropped short, dusted with streaks of gray at the temples. She cupped her hands around the last embers of warmth as if to coax one final spark of life from them.

  The Wanderer approached quietly, unsure if she’d welcome an intrusion. The lantern’s flame glowed like a subdued star in the dim light, casting a soft halo on the ground. He watched as she placed a handful of kindling onto the coals, only to see them fizzle without catching. Her shoulders sagged, a silent expression of fatigue and resignation.

  He cleared his throat gently. “Do you need help with the fire?”

  Startled, she glanced up, eyes sharpened by surprise. It took only a moment for her expression to shift from caution to relief. “You gave me a fright,” she admitted, turning her attention back to the embers. “I’ve been trying to keep this going for most of the night. My stock of dry wood was smaller than I thought.”

  Wordlessly, the Wanderer knelt opposite her, setting the lantern down on the stony ground. Its flame danced, illuminating the woman’s face. He noticed faint lines at the corners of her eyes and a weariness there that he recognized all too well. From a pouch inside his pack, he withdrew a small bundle of tinder he carried for emergencies—scraps of cloth and finely shaved wood. Carefully, he added them to the glowing embers, then blew a gentle breath to encourage a flame.

  At last, a tiny lick of fire caught, slowly growing until it crackled to life. A soft glow warmed both their faces. The woman nodded gratefully. “Thank you. I was afraid the cold would do me in before sunrise.”

  The Wanderer took a seat on a flat rock near the fire, allowing the warmth to ease the chill in his bones. “You’re traveling alone?”

  She nodded, expression distant. “I left my home not too long ago—long enough that I’ve lost count of the days. It’s just me and this fire, most nights.”

  He glanced around the campsite. A small canvas pack leaned against a larger stone, but there were no bedrolls, no extra provisions. Little sign of a long journey, though it was clear she’d been on the road for a while. Something about her posture suggested she was accustomed to solitude.

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  She followed his gaze to the lantern, which continued its perpetual glow. “That light—it’s unlike any lamp I’ve ever seen,” she remarked. “No oil, no candles. I used to carry one just like it, but I let it go. Chose to settle down. Build a life that wasn’t always…moving.”

  Her eyes flickered with a private memory—perhaps regret, perhaps resignation. The Wanderer was intrigued. “You had a lantern like this?”

  “Not as old or storied as yours, I’m sure.” She opened her hands to the fire, flexing stiff fingers. “But when you live on the road, you become attached to any little flame that promises hope in the dark. Then one day I realized—without a home for that flame, it was just wandering. A hearth is what keeps a fire truly alive. Otherwise, the wind can blow it out at any moment.”

  She said it matter-of-factly, but her voice carried an undercurrent of emotion. The Wanderer heard the wisdom in her words and felt a small pang in his chest. Am I just carrying this lantern through endless nights? he wondered. Without a place to rest, is all this searching meaningless?

  The woman must have caught the thoughtful look on his face. She offered a gentle smile. “No offense meant. Everyone’s path is their own. But you seem tired—maybe in more ways than one.”

  The Wanderer nodded slowly. He felt the weight of her observation like a stone in his pack. “I sometimes wonder if I’m looking for a home I can’t name,” he admitted, surprising even himself with the honesty. “Or if I’m just afraid to stop.”

  She reached for a small iron kettle beside her and poured two cups of water from her meager supply, setting them near the fire to warm. “I settled in a valley once,” she said, her voice gentle, “planted a garden, built walls to keep out the wind. Yet after a while, that garden felt like a cage. I left, but now, I find myself longing for those walls again.” She laughed softly, a sound both wistful and self-deprecating. “Funny how the mind does that—makes you yearn for what you don’t have, no matter which side of the fence you’re on.”

  The Wanderer looked at the lantern’s steady glow and then at the newborn flames dancing over the kindling they’d saved. Each flame was fragile, each fire in need of tending. “Maybe that’s why I keep moving. I’m not sure what I’d do if I stayed in one place.”

  She lifted the kettle away from the fire, pouring a modest serving of warm water into two tin cups. The smell of char and heated metal rose in the crisp air. “Perhaps you haven’t found the right place yet. Or perhaps you haven’t found the right reason to stay.”

  They shared the warm water in companionable silence, the only sound the hiss of burning twigs and the occasional pop of damp wood. Around them, the sky brightened, turning streaks of gray into soft shades of pink and orange. The woman closed her eyes for a moment, letting the warmth of the fire soothe her.

  Eventually, the Wanderer gathered his lantern, preparing to continue on the road. He felt a strange mixture of comfort and sorrow—comfort in the sense of kinship with this woman who understood both the lure and the burden of wandering, and sorrow that he had no real answers for either of them.

  She watched him rise, nodding in quiet farewell. “Safe travels,” she said simply. “I hope one day you find a place where that lantern’s flame can burn without fear of the wind.”

  He hesitated, tempted to ask if she might travel with him, even for a short while. But the set of her shoulders told him this was her own journey—much like his was his own. “I wish the same for you,” he replied softly, and for a moment their eyes met, each reflecting the other’s longing for both freedom and stability.

  As he turned away, the small fire crackled at his back, and he silently carried the woman’s words with him: A flame needs a hearth, or it will burn out in the wind. He wondered how many more miles he would walk before he found a place—or a reason—to let the lantern rest at last.