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ArtistA whimsical lantern shop deep in the forest, built from a moss-covered old caravan with a crooked roof and a small chimney releasing soft blue smoke. Above the wooden door, a sign reads: “Lanterns of all kinds – Light as you wish”. Inside, a narrow, magical space filled with floor-to-ceiling shelves holding countless unique lanterns: some tiny and whisper-warm, others large and moonlike, one glowing with real starlight, another releasing gentle mist, and one that giggles softly when shaken. Behind the wooden counter stands an anthropomorphic fox wearing a soot-stained linen apron, fur slightly singed at the snout, with a calm, wise expression. Across from him stands a small mole with round glasses and a vest, torn between two lanterns — one glowing like dawn, the other like bursts of thought. The shop is bathed in warm twilight tones, with fireflies dancing outside the little window. The atmosphere is magical, quiet, and poetic — a secret place for those seeking the right kind of light,in the style of Erin E. Stead or Chris Dunn ,
Sometimes, as evening gently sweeps over the forest, a secret glow begins to emerge between the trees. Not bright, not loud—more like a faint thought you'd almost forgotten. Those brave enough to follow the light will reach a place uncharted: a shop built from an old construction trailer, a bit of magic, and a handful of stories. The roof is mossy, blue smoke curls from the chimney, and a sign dangles above the creaking wooden door: "Lanterns of all kinds—Light as desired." The scent inside is strangely comforting: of warm wax, soot—and a hint of cinnamon. The room is narrow, yet endless in its depth. Shelves tower to the ceiling, filled with lanterns, each a small miracle. Some glow barely visibly, as if whispering old dust from childhood. Others shine cool and round, like the August moon over a lake. One shines with real starlight, which hums softly when touched, like lullabies from another world. Another casts no glow, but mist – for nights that don't want to be seen. And a lantern – that giggles. Really. If you shake it, it chortles like a memory of laughter in the rain. Behind the counter stands the fox. In a soot-stained linen apron, the fur on his snout slightly singed from his last attempt at light. His eyes, however, are clear – like water that has reflected many moons. In a calm voice, he advises his guests. Today it is a mole, small, round, with a vest and slipping glasses. He vacillates between two lanterns: one like dawn. One like a thought that suddenly strikes. "It depends," says the fox, "whether you prefer to dream... or wake up." The mole frowns. Outside, twilight has fallen over the treetops, and fireflies dance in front of the window like questions without answers. The fox says nothing more. He never pushes. He knows: light can't be bought. It will find you. When you're ready. The mole finally nods. He takes the lantern of twilight. And as he steps out into the beginning of evening, his walk seems a little easier. Perhaps even brighter. The fox returns to the counter. Outside, the sign flashes in the wind. Inside, a light flickers. And somewhere on the shelf, the next one is already waiting.
