Breglio and the Light That Fell Too Soon

More about Breglio and the Light That Fell Too Soon

Something was different that night. The sky stretched cloudless over the forest, but Breglio couldn't sleep. Something had awakened him—not by noise, but by the absence of sound. The silence was too complete, too smooth as glass. No chirping crickets, no rustling in the leaves, not a drop in the moss. He sat up in the soft nest of fern and cloth and reached for his soot-stained lantern. But before he touched the wick, he stopped. Something was already shining. A single beam of light shone through the dense canopy—not golden like the morning sun, but silvery-pale, almost transparent, like a light that had forgotten how to shine. It trembled in the air as if it didn't know where it belonged. Breglio pulled his tunic tighter, carefully pushed the tent leaf aside, and stepped outside. The cold of the night forest floor bit into his soles, but he walked. The beam of light moved. No—it led him. Breglio followed it, hesitantly at first, then with growing wonder. The path the light showed him was not one he knew. Roots rose from the ground like breaths of air, and among the trees lay things that didn't exist during the day: a mirror of frozen mist, an owl with translucent wings, a stone on which the moss grew backward. After a while—minutes? Hours?—the forest opened into a clearing. In the center stood a single tree. Bare, black, overgrown with moss. And yet something grew there: the light. It hung in the branches like a fruit, ripened too soon, fallen too soon. Breglio stepped closer. The light flickered, not fleeing. It wasn't afraid. Rather—confusion. "You don't belong here," he said softly. The light answered not with words, but with images. Around Breglio, the air formed shapes that seemed like memories, but were not. A wish that had never been spoken to anyone. A promise made too soon. A child not yet born, but already dreamed. Breglio understood: this light had fallen from the future. A fragment of tomorrow that someone had wished for too soon—or that had itself been in too much haste. "You are alone," he whispered. "You are... too soon." The light flickered again, dimmer now. Breglio drew his lantern from his belt. It was old, often patched, the windows blinded by soot—but more than once it had carried things that others could not see. He opened the clasp. "I cannot bring you back. But I can keep you safe." He gently guided the light in. It did not resist. It slid into the lantern like a leaf, anchoring itself to the wick without touching it. A low humming sound emerged. Breglio closed the case. The clearing fell dark again. The tree stood still. The next morning, the forest awoke. Birds sang, the sun tickled the ferns. Everything was as it always was. Almost. For in Breglio's lantern, a light now burned that was not of this time. And sometimes, when he paused, he saw in it things that hadn't happened yet—and others that should never have happened