Sometimes,
in the hush between her laughter,
she would pause—
as if the world itself had gone quiet
to remind her of what she still missed.

She dreamed of a hand,
warm and steady,
that might close around hers
and never let go.

In the crowded street,
she felt its absence.
In the candlelit night,
she felt its ache.

And yet—
the vision of it kept her walking,
kept her giving,
kept her weaving lanterns
out of sorrow and light.

She knew not when,
or if,
that hand would come.
It seemed as distant as stars
glittering in a sky
that never bends low enough to touch.

But still,
her heart whispered:

“Let there be someone.
Let there be one
who sees me not as laughter,
nor as silence,
but as both—
and holds me whole.”

The lantern in her chest
burned with this quiet hope—
a flame of longing
that was tender,
and bittersweet,
and endlessly alive.