The Final Lantern

~ Chapter 10 of The Watchman Chronicles ~

The Watchman moved through the town at a pace that didn’t disturb the mist. The hour was late, but not entirely still — distant shutters clicked in the wind, and somewhere a bell had lost count of the hour and was tolling vaguely in protest. He passed beneath it without looking up. Lantern by lantern, he paused, reached for the wick, and gently extinguished it with a practiced motion that felt older than his hands.

The dog walked beside him — a border collie, black and white, eyes bright with a memory the man no longer had. He carried no lead, needed no instruction. He simply walked where he walked, stopped where he stopped. Once, he barked at a familiar alley, but the Watchman only frowned and moved on.

He didn’t know the town’s name. He didn’t know his own. But he knew which lanterns to put out.

He reached a crooked post outside what might once have been a scribe’s parlour. The glass was cracked, the frame twisted with age, but the flame inside flickered stubbornly. He raised a hand toward it—

“Why are you killing the memories?” The voice was small. Not accusing. Just curious.

He turned. A girl stood there, wrapped in a scarf far too large for her. Her breath puffed little clouds into the air. She blinked up at him, not afraid.

“You’re putting them out,” she said again. “The lights. They’re memories, aren’t they?”

The Watchman looked at the flame. He thought of something — a scent, maybe, or the faint rustle of a cat shifting atop a bookshelf. It passed before he could name it.

“They’re resting,” he said at last. “That’s all.”

She fell into step beside him as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

“Do they come back?” she asked, watching the smoke curl from the just-extinguished lantern.

“Who?” he asked.

“The memories.”

He didn’t answer right away. They walked past an old well and a half-collapsed cart. The dog trotted ahead, then doubled back to herd them gently forward.

“Some do,” the Watchman said eventually. “But different. Softer.”

“Like dreams?”

He nodded. “The kind you only half-remember in the morning. But they don’t hurt so much then.”

They passed the bakery — shutters drawn, but a faint scent of aniseed and flour still hung in the air. The Watchman hesitated.

“Did you used to live here?” the girl asked, watching his pause.

“I don’t know.”

“But something feels like you did.”

He didn’t reply. His hand had moved again to the next lantern — this one newer, better kept, the brass polished recently. The kind of thing someone still cared for.

“What about this one?” she asked. “Does it need to go?”

He studied the flame. It danced brightly, but calmly. There was no flicker of distress. No tremble of memory trying to escape.

“No,” he said. “Not yet.”

“Why?”

“Because someone still remembers it well enough.”

The girl was quiet for a while. They turned a corner, the cobblestones slick with mist. The town began to thin — rooftops giving way to treetops, the final lantern just ahead. She looked up at him.

“Will someone remember you?” The Watchman looked ahead. The dog waited by the last post.

“I don’t know,” he said. And then, quietly: “But I think… she might.”

He reached for the final lantern. And for just a moment — a blink, a breath — the light inside pulsed with a soft glow of brass and lavender.

He smiled. Then, gently, he extinguished it.

~ the end ~