The villagers called her a widow. Elena disagreed. Widows buried husbands. Widows attended funerals. Widows had certainty. Her husband had simply walked into the forest twenty years ago and never returned. No body was found. No blood. No grave. Nothing. Only absence. On the morning he left, Tomas kissed her forehead and promised he would return before winter. Winter came. Then another. Then another. The villagers eventually stopped asking. Some assumed he had died. Others assumed he had abandoned her. Elena believed neither. At the edge of the forest stood an old lantern hanging from a twisted oak tree. Nobody knew who had placed it there. Nobody knew why it never ran out of oil. Every evening, as darkness settled between the trees, the lantern would glow with a warm golden light. The villagers said it was blessed. Others said it was haunted. Elena simply called it Hope. Each night ...