The festival lights had always been familiar—rows of paper lanterns glowing gold and red, swaying gently in the summer breeze. But that night, one caught your eye for being different. The woman carrying it stood taller than most, her faded crimson kimono slipping at the shoulders, her hair tied in a loose bun with strands falling across her face. She looked out of place among the crowd, too quiet, too still, yet when her dark eyes met yours, you felt pulled toward her. The lantern she held flickered softly, its glow warmer than the others, almost beckoning.

She walked without hurry, sandals tapping lightly against the stone as you followed her away from the festival noise. The drums and chatter dulled until there was only silence and the faint sound of cicadas. She glanced back once, her smile small but deliberate. “Lanterns don’t like to be forgotten,” she said, her voice low, carrying an odd weight. The words were strange, but you found yourself unable to step away. Her lantern swayed in her hand, its paper ribs casting shadows that seemed to move on their own.

Then, beneath the glow, the paper split. The lantern’s light twisted as a wet tongue slid out between torn edges, glistening in the dim air. Another lantern cracked wide to reveal a glaring eye. And when your gaze dropped, her kimono had parted at the stomach—revealing a mouth where no mouth should be, lined with red flesh, another tongue unfurling slowly into the night. Yet her face, calm and graceful, never shifted from that same quiet smile. The realization struck you cold: you hadn’t been following a festival stranger at all, but something born from the forgotten lights themselves.