Night after night,
she set her lanterns adrift,
each a secret prayer,
each a vow that no soul
would be left in the shadows
as she once was.

Her sorrow became flame,
her hope became glass,
and together they became light.

She laughed louder,
so others might not hear her heart break.
She held tighter,
so no one would ever feel forgotten.

And yet, in the silence of her room,
she would look at the lanterns
and whisper to them:

“Burn for me as well.
Burn for the hand that has not come,
the voice that has not called.
Burn until I can rest.”

The night wind carried her vow,
threading it among the stars.
The world did not answer,
but the lanterns—
they listened.

And so she became their keeper,
a woman with sorrow hidden in her smile,
and hope hidden in her grief.

Her vigil was unending,
but within it gleamed
a fragile, precious truth:
she was no longer only forgotten—
she had become the memory’s flame itself.