The lanterns go out at the village edge. A golden thread curls up through the mist from the forest floor. Lumi crouches, spots the glowing blue mushrooms, and steps off the last cobble into the dark.
She tiptoes between the blue mushrooms, pressing her nose to the wet moss. The mist swallows the golden glow. She stands alone in the hush.
I'll find you, she thinks. She crawls under a low branch, her tail scraping the dirt. The blue mushrooms pulse slowly ahead.
Night two. She follows the trail past the old stump, past the crooked pine. The glow flickers ahead. She stretches, reaches — it slips through her fingers.
Tomorrow, she thinks, turning toward the trees. The mushrooms dim to a faint blue hum. She pads home through the thickening fog.
Night three. She follows the blue trail to the big hollow oak in the clearing. She peeks through the bark cracks and gasps — tiny fireflies tangle together on a moss shelf, building their home.
One firefly stops, faces her, and blinks. Lumi gathers a blanket of fallen leaves — maple, oak, one round birch — and tucks them gently around the oak's little door.
The fireflies pulse warm glow through the thin gaps. She walks home through the mist. The golden light still rises from the forest floor, steady and soft.