A small gold coin of light wobbled on the garden wall. Leo stood very still and watched it. Where had it come from? He peeped through the hedge with Grandpa. "Ah," whispered Grandpa. "Somebody has lit their lantern already. The Lantern Walk is beginning."
On the table lay Leo's paper, soft and patterned all over with tiny leaves. A lantern hides in paper like that — but only if you fold it slowly.
Leo wanted to be quick. Quick, quick, before the lane filled up! He squashed the paper shut in a hurry — and crinkle, it sprang open again and flopped over sideways.
Leo's hands squeezed into two small fists. Then he let out a long breath and began once more.
Corner to corner. Fold... and wait... and smooth the crease with one finger. Corner to corner. Fold... and wait... and smooth. The paper stopped springing back. It was learning its shape.
Grandpa set the little candle-glow inside, and the lantern stood up round and steady, glowing the colour of warm honey.
Out in the lane, neighbours were gathering at dusk. Wellies. Woolly hats. Lanterns bobbing like slow fireflies. And there, by the gate, Leo's friend held a lantern with no light in it at all. The breeze had puffed it out.
Leo lifted his own lantern up. "You can have some of mine," he said.
Grandpa leaned the two lanterns close, and the little flame reached across. Now there were two glows. And Leo's lantern was not one bit dimmer.
The neighbour beside them shared theirs too. And the next. And the next, all down the lane, until every lantern was lit and the whole path shone.
So they walked. Slow steps, swaying light, a long golden ribbon winding past the hedges and the mossy gate. Leo held his lantern with both hands and watched the little leaves on the paper glowing like windows.
At the end of the lane the lanterns stopped, one by one, and the dark came softly back.
Then home. Pyjamas. Blanket up to the chin. And behind his closed eyes, Leo could still see it — fold... and wait... and glow.