Hugo of the Wurzelstock and the Lantern with the Second Light

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It was an evening such as even the dense thicket rarely saw. The branches stood still, as if holding their breath. A gentle mist hung between the trunks, in which a faint light flickered like that of fireflies, but none buzzed or danced. Hugo of the Rootstock sat on his stone stool, staring at a small, sooty lantern that gave off little more than a dull glow. Beside him: Brummel Mossbart, silent as always, but today with a frown. "It's gotten weaker," Hugo murmured. "Since we returned from the archives. As if it were missing something—or as if it had lost something." Brummel scratched his beard. "Perhaps... it's missing its second light." Hugo looked at him, astonished. The lantern that once belonged to their old friend Lemunder was a relic from a bygone era—it glowed when one remembered, and flickered when one doubted. But no one had ever spoken of a second light. "Back then," grumbled Brummel, "there were stories of twin lights. One lantern, two flames—one for the journey, one for the destination. When the second flame goes out, the heart wanders." The next morning they set out. Over fern paths and root trails, through misty hollows and silent forests, their path led to the Crooked Cleft—a rock cleft from which warm steam always rose. There, so old tales said, lay the workshop of the Spark Weaver, the mythical light carver who once gave lanterns soul. They found the cleft open. Moss covered the walls, a delicate sound vibrated in the air, as if someone were plucking strings far below. Hugo stepped forward, lantern in hand, which was now almost extinguished. The darkness was soft and breathing, like a sleeping animal. Deep in the grotto stood a table made of slate. On it: tools of glowing bronze, a woven wick of duskgrass, and a tiny, still flame encased in a bubble of lightglass. "This is it," Hugo breathed. "The second light." But before he could reach out, a voice rose from the shadows. "Whose memory are you? And whose goal?" A figure stepped forward—half mist, half reflection. The Sparkweaver was not a being, but an echo of light and will. His eyes glittered like drops of water in the moonlight. "I am Hugo," said the gnome. "And this lantern once belonged to a friend. I think it needs its other light back, so it can once again show where you are going and why." The Sparkweaver nodded barely visibly. "Then don't just give it the light. Give it a reason." And so Hugo took the wick, planted the tiny flame in the heart of the lantern, and whispered into it: "For Lemunder. For everything we are still seeking, and for what we don't want to lose." A second glow rose—no brighter than the first, but clearer, more upright. The lantern began to sing, softly, with tones that sounded like sealed memories. On the way home, the fog was lighter, the night not darker, but full of depth. And Hugo knew: from now on, the lantern would not only show the way, but also remind him why he was walking it.