On the edge of a quiet village stood a hill that everyone avoided at night. At its crest, a lone lantern glowed faintly, though no one had ever seen who lit it. Children whispered that it belonged to a ghost waiting for lost travelers. Adults, more practical but no less wary, said it was an old trick of the light from long-burned-out ruins.

One autumn evening, a storm rolled in. Mara, a young healer, was called to help a family whose child had fallen ill. She packed her satchel and braved the rain, taking the quickest path—the one up the forbidden hill.

As she climbed, the lantern flared brighter, not menacing, but steady, guiding her steps. When she reached the top, she found it hanging from the branch of a crooked oak. No one was there.

She touched the lantern. The flame inside did not burn; instead, it shimmered like liquid gold. A warmth spread through her hands, filling her with courage. The light stretched along the path downward, showing her the safest way through the storm.

The family’s home was reached in time, and the child was saved. When Mara returned, the lantern was still there. From that night on, she made it her duty to light it whenever dusk fell.

And though villagers still spoke of ghosts, they began to call it The Guardian’s Lantern, and travelers no longer feared the hill.