Each evening, Mira watched a lantern travel across the bay. It belonged to her father’s small boat, and from the beach it looked no larger than a firefly. She had learned to recognize its gentle movement long before she could recognize the stars.
One afternoon, he left the lantern behind. The glass had cracked, and he thought he would return before the sun dropped behind the islands. But a change in the wind slowed his journey. By dusk, the horizon was the same deep blue as the water.
Mira carried the lantern to the beach. Her grandmother helped her shelter its flame from the breeze with a piece of clear glass. Then the two of them climbed the low ridge above the shore, where the light could be seen beyond the bend of the bay.
For a long time, there was only the sound of water. Mira wanted to wave the lantern, to make its light larger. Her grandmother shook her head. A steady light, she said, is easier to follow.
At last, the boat appeared. Her father had not been searching for the brightest light on the island. He had been searching for the one that stayed in the place he knew.
After that evening, they kept a lantern on the ridge whenever someone was still at sea. Mira grew taller, the boat grew older, and the small light became something the whole village looked after together.