The storm crashes in and every window goes dark. Lumina's small flame bends flat. Wet wind shoves fog tight against the glass. Thud, thud, thud — doors slam shut. Nobody peeks out.
Lumina taps the dark door — tap, tap, tap. The door yawns, then slams. Cold fog washes over the glass. The flame shrinks to a thin orange thread. "Not yet," Lumina hums. "I'll try the next one."
Three more doors. Tap, tap, tap. Three more slams. Grey fog puffs over the glass each time. The storm howls. Shapes in the fog twist into jagged, clawed silhouettes. Lumina's light stutters like a match caught in the wind.
Then the last door. Wide open. No one inside. Just the empty square where the fog swirls thickest. Lumina's light barely reaches the wet cobblestones.
Lumina rolls into the open square and blazes. Not a small glow — a wide, steady golden sheet of light that cuts clean through the fog.
The clawed shapes uncurl, slow and soft, dragging grey hems across the rooftops. Just clouds, spinning. One dips low and pats the glass like a cool, wet paw. The storm's roar drops to a low rumble.
The fog thins to wisps. Doors creak open one by one. A little girl steps out barefoot and cups the glow in her palms. The others crowd close, faces lit gold. No one flinches.
Lumina settles back in its little bracket outside the square. Its flame burns steady, small, and warm. Every window in the village holds a tiny flicker of it.
