Leon Basin

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There’s a memory I’m chasing.

A flicker of something just out of reach, like light breaking through the trees.

I don’t know if it’s real, but it feels alive—something I’ve carried without knowing.

I was young, maybe not much older than you, my daughters.

I remember standing on a quiet road.

It was the kind that stretches endlessly in both directions.

The only sound was the wind whispering through the leaves.

In my hand was a lantern, rusted but warm, glowing faintly against the growing dusk.

“Don’t let it go out,” someone said.

The voice came from behind me or maybe within me—I don’t remember.

What I do remember is how heavy those words felt, like they were meant to shape more than that moment.

The flame inside the lantern was fragile, dancing and flickering like it was unsure if it wanted to stay.

I cupped it with my hands, guarding it against the wind and the shadows pressing in around me.

But no matter how tightly I held it, the flame kept shrinking, dimming, threatening to vanish altogether.

Panic rose in my chest.

What if I failed?

What if the light went out, and I was left alone in the dark?

That’s when I saw him.

An old man sat on the edge of the road.

His face was lined with wisdom.

It’s the kind of wisdom you don’t earn without losing things along the way.

“You’re holding it too tight,” he said, his voice calm and steady.

I looked at him, confused.

“If I don’t protect it, it’ll go out.”

He smiled—a knowing, quiet smile.

“The light isn’t in the lantern, boy.

It’s in you. Let it breathe.”

I didn’t understand him then.

Maybe I still don’t, not fully.

But as I sit here now, writing this for you, I think I finally see the edges of his meaning.

That lantern wasn’t just a lantern.

It was my gift, my calling—the light I was meant to carry through this life.

And the harder I tried to control it, the more it faded.

I let go.

I trusted myself enough to let it breathe.

It burned brighter than I ever thought possible.

This story is for you, my daughters.

You’ll have your own lanterns to carry, your own flames to protect.

There will be moments when the shadows feel too close, when the wind threatens to snuff everything out.

You’ll think you have to hold on tighter, fight harder.

But remember this: the light isn’t just something you protect.

It’s something you are.

And it will always guide you back.

So I write to keep the lantern alive—not just for me, but for you.

For anyone wandering quiet roads, unsure if their light is enough.

It is.

It always has been.

Don’t let it go out.

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Author’s Note

When I wrote The Lantern Keeper, I found myself grappling with the same fears as the boy in the story. The fear of losing the light, of holding on too tightly, is one I know well. Writing this piece was my way of letting the flame breathe, trusting that what I carry within me is enough. It’s a lesson I’m still learning. I hope my daughters will grow into it. I now share this lesson with you. What’s your lantern? How do you let it shine?

Warmly,

@leonbasinwriter