The Star Lantern 💫

A Middle-Grade Short Story About Loss, Love, and Light***

Nine-year-old Abel had always loved the night sky. His dad used to say stars were the universe’s way of leaving the lights on for people who were loved.
But after his dad passed away, the sky felt too big. Too quiet. Too far away.

One evening, Abel wandered behind his grandmother’s house to the old willow tree. The branches swayed as if whispering his name. That’s when he noticed something glowing near the roots—a tiny lantern no bigger than his hand, shimmering like a jar full of fireflies.

A soft voice floated out.
“Hello, Abel.”

He froze. “Who—who are you?”

“I’m a Star Lantern,” the voice said gently. “I guide children who are carrying heavy hearts.”

Abel knelt closer. “My heart isn’t heavy,” he whispered.
But that wasn’t true. Grief sat in his chest like a stone he couldn’t lift.

The lantern flickered. “When someone you love goes somewhere you can’t follow yet, the heart feels heavy. But I can show you where love goes.”

The lantern rose into the air, floating like a tiny sun. Abel hesitated, but curiosity tugged him forward. He followed it through the trees until the woods opened into a meadow that glowed with soft, silver-blue light.

Above them, the stars shimmered brighter—closer—like a sky full of lanterns lit just for him.

“I don’t think I can do this,” Abel said, his voice trembling. “I miss him too much.”

“That’s why you’re here,” the lantern answered. “Look up.”

Abel lifted his eyes.

A single star pulsed brighter than the rest—warm, golden, familiar. His breath hitched.
“Dad?”

The lantern swirled around him. “Love doesn’t disappear when people do. It becomes part of the light they leave behind.”

Abel felt something soften, warm, and safe bloom inside his chest. The heavy stone didn’t vanish, but it grew lighter—just enough for him to breathe without hurting.

“Will he ever come back?” he asked.

“No,” the lantern said gently. “But he will never stop being yours. He shines a little brighter every time you laugh, every time you remember him, every time you choose kindness because he taught you how.”

A tear slid down Abel’s cheek, but he smiled. Really smiled.
“I think… I think I can carry that.”

The lantern drifted lower, glowing soft yellow. “And when you need me again, just come to the willow tree.”

Abel walked home, looking up at the sky that no longer felt empty. The brightest star winked softly, like his father was saying goodnight.

For the first time in a long time, Abel whispered it back.

“Goodnight, Dad.”

And a warm, golden glow flickered above—like a lantern in the dark lighting his way forward.