Chameleon Magazine

Long ago, in a wind-brushed land where the trees whispered secrets and shadows lingered long after sunset, there lived a witch atop a lonely ridge. She wore no black cloak, cast no curses, and stirred no cauldrons. Instead, she kept a garden of glass jars — each one filled with a flicker of light.

Villagers below feared her, as people often do when they do not understand. They called her strange, and warned their children not to climb too close to her hill.

But the witch never minded.

Every twilight, just before the stars claimed the sky, she would walk to the edge of the ridge with one jar in hand. She would open the lid, and let the light drift into the wind.

Some lights moved toward distant forests. Others floated down the river. A few hovered over rooftops, pausing just long enough to make someone glance out a window and feel… less alone.

One night, a boy — curious and braver than most — climbed the ridge and asked her, “Why do you release those lights?”

The witch smiled gently. “Because the world loses little pieces of itself every day. And someone has to help them find their way back.”

“Pieces of what?” he asked.

“Of hope. Of memory. Of people who once meant something.”

The boy thought about this, then looked out at the glowing specks drifting into the dusk. “Do the lights ever come back?”

“No,” she said. “They go where they’re needed. That’s enough.”

He nodded, then sat beside her until the last light had vanished into the night.

From that day on, he never feared the ridge again. And long after the witch had vanished like one of her lights, people began leaving lanterns on their windowsills — just small ones, just in case.

To remember what had once been lost.

And to thank the one who helped them find it.

“Those who light the way for the lost rarely walk in the light themselves — but the world is brighter because they do.”