Page 28 of Second Chance with the Half-Elf

AERON

L antern Night comes in slow and thunderless, the kind of evening that doesn’t feel like a grand finale but something older—quieter, heavier with meaning.

The wind’s calm for once, brushing in from the sea like it knows better than to make a mess of things tonight.

There’s salt in the air, sweetened by cinnamon fritters frying three stalls down, and the sky’s already bleeding gold into violet by the time I finish adjusting the last tie on the western railing.

The air feels thick with memory. The wood beneath my boots creaks just so, soft groans soaked in years of storms and bonfires, kisses and confessions and all the damn things people try to forget under festival lights.

I pause, let my hand rest on one of the newer planks, its grain still coarse and sun-bleached, and I can almost feel the weight of the town pressing in through it—hopes nailed down with every board.

I stand back, breathing in woodsmoke, salt brine, and festival sugar.

There’s laughter in the air too, rising and falling in bursts.

Kids dart between legs with streamer tails trailing from their pockets, and old Mr. Hale is already half into his second cider, winking sloppily at Marla, who pretends not to notice while she hawks candied mussels.

The crowd’s thick now. Lanterns swing from every post, each one glowing from the inside out, painted with monsters and names and little scribbled wishes scrawled in wax crayon and pen. Some of them flicker like they’re alive. Some sway like they’re listening.

A group of musicians huddled near the coffee stall begins to play—low, plaintive fiddle over the quiet pulse of a bodhrán.

It’s not stage music, it’s porch music, memory music.

The kind you don’t dance to, just drift inside.

Children shriek down the docks with buckets full of glowing algae scooped from tidal pools.

Teenagers lean against posts pretending they aren’t watching each other.

It all feels... suspended. Like we’re living inside the lanterns themselves, soft and fragile and lit from within.

Drokhaz elbows me as he passes, grinning. “You’re pacing again.”

“I’m not pacing,” I mutter, even though I am.

He just snorts and nods toward the docks. “Maybe stop waiting and start walking.”

But I don’t move.

Because I don’t know if I’m walking toward something or waiting for it to be taken away.

The truth is, I’ve been holding my breath since yesterday. Since she told me she needed time. Since the call came. Since she looked at me with eyes full of history and hesitation and something deeper than either of us was ready for.

I haven’t asked what she’s going to do.

I won’t.

Because whatever she chooses—whether it’s Lumera or New York, me or the version of her that lives in magazine spreads and city skyline shadows—I have to be able to live with it.

But my hands are clenched so tight my knuckles ache.

A sharp whistle cuts through the air, followed by a cheer. Jamie’s voice rises above the crowd, yelling something about “monster wishes” and “no cheating.”

And just like that, the first lantern rises.

It’s a wide-bottomed thing shaped like a jellyfish, all tendrils and wild curves, painted bright orange with tiny black eyes. Jamie and Rowan release it together, and it lifts slow, catching in the still air before floating up, up, up, swallowed by the bruised lavender of the sky.

Others follow.

Paper fish, sky serpents, sunbursts and stars. One shaped like a squid, two more like lighthouses. Each one holding a flame. Each one a soft defiance against the dark.

The whole boardwalk glows now, the reflection of a hundred tiny fires dancing in the sea below.

It’s magic—but the kind built by hands, sweat, and stubborn love, not spells.

I know every screw in the railing holding up these watchers.

I know the hours it took to prep the rigs, the aching backs and blistered palms behind every wooden arch.

People are starting to move now, crowd pressing against the tide wall, voices lowering. The hush that falls is reverent—not religious, but something close to it.

It’s hope. Loosed.

I stay near the edge, where the lights are dimmer and the salt hangs heavy.

And that’s when I see her.

Evie.

She’s not looking for me.

She’s just moving—through the crowd like a pulled tide, hair loose down her back, jacket open, camera strap slung across her chest. Her eyes flick upward, watching the lanterns rise, and there’s this look on her face—steady, strong, lit from inside—that hits me harder than any spoken word.

She’s not smiling.

Not quite.

But she’s glowing.

She lifts her camera and captures a single frame—the jellyfish lantern, halfway to the clouds—and lowers it slowly, like even that single shot took something sacred with it.

And I can’t move.

Because I don’t know what comes next, but for this second, I don’t care.

The lanterns keep rising.

Some slow and lopsided, drifting toward each other like they’re falling in love mid-air.

Others rocket fast, eager to escape, pulsing brighter for just a moment before fading into the deep violet of the sky.

Around us, the hush settles deeper, the crowd subdued now by wonder, as if they know they’re witnessing something they’ll remember in the quiet hours of future winters—when the sea's frozen over and the festival’s just a memory clinging to the scent of old wool and cedar.

I can’t take my eyes off her.

Evie stands maybe twenty feet away, half-shadowed by the golden spill of light from the bonfire pits and the low glimmer of lanterns overhead.

A family walks between us—parents holding the hands of their giggling kids, the littlest one in a shark costume three sizes too big—then two teenagers wrapped around each other like they’re the last people on earth. Still, I don’t move. I just watch.

And she catches me watching.

Her gaze lifts, locks, and it’s like everything in me just… stops.

There’s no grin. No wave. No clever line.

Just her, looking at me with a kind of clarity that burns clean through the smoke and the noise and every tangled thing between us. It’s not a question. It’s not a challenge. It’s not regret.

It’s a statement.

It says: I’m here.

That’s it.

Not I’ve chosen. Not I’m staying forever. Not even I love you. Just I’m here. And somehow that’s more. Because it’s real. It’s present. It’s hers.

The wind picks up, a soft current rippling across the bay, sending the lanterns into a slow spiral above the crowd. The sea responds with a hush of foam on sand, the tide just beginning to rise, gentle and deliberate, kissing the edge of the pier like it knows the moment needs quiet applause.

And then she starts walking. Boots against wood, coat brushing her knees. Her braid half undone, windblown. The strap of her camera cuts across her chest like armor, but there’s no battle here tonight.

She moves through the people without hesitation, eyes never leaving mine.

I don’t move a muscle. Because to move would be to rush it. To taint it. To shift the weight of something that’s finally found balance.

When she reaches me, she doesn’t speak.

She just steps into my space like it’s hers to claim, and the rest of the world narrows until all I know is the shape of her in the glow of paper light.

The lanterns still rise. The music still plays. Someone laughs behind us, someone else starts a soft cheer for a heart-shaped flame drifting above the docks.

But for me, everything else falls away.

Because she’s here.

And I believe her.