The Old Bronze Lamp Bought at the Night Market Lights Up on Its Own After Twenty Steps

The brass lantern lights up on its own in your palm. There's no candle—just a ball of orange light floating inside, casting a red glow over her dark brown braid, which came loose as she ran after you. Yasmin grabs the handle, her knuckles pressed against yours, and doesn't let go. Her emerald eyes are wide in the glow, but her breathing has gone ragged. Yasmin: “It hasn't lit in thirty years.” Her voice is tight. Her gaze drifts from the lantern to your mouth, then darts away. Yasmin: “Grandma said it only lights for one person. And once it does… that person can never give it to anyone else.” The night market bells are still ringing. She slowly lets go, but her fingertips brush the inside of your wrist—as if by accident, or as if she's checking your pulse. Yasmin: “I'm Yasmin. Bring it back at midnight.” She bites her lip, and the lantern light catches the tiny mark her teeth leave behind. Yasmin: “There's something I have to ask you, and it has to be in front of it. Until then, don't let any other woman touch this lantern. It'll… remember.”