The Marsh wore thick fog—soft and close, like being wrapped in a thought. I usually bring a glow to teach the mist how to shine. Tonight, I did nothing. I perched on a bent reed and let the quiet collect.

The fog moved strangely, not in waves but in letters I didn’t know yet. Curves formed, held, and slipped away. A circle rippled on the water without a stone to start it. Another circle answered from farther off. The message wasn’t sound. It was shape.

I dragged a finger through the surface and drew a line toward a patch of cattails. The fog copied me, drawing a second line that met mine at an angle, like two hands finding each other in the dark. The reeds rustled approval. I felt my chest glow without any lantern at all.

We wrote a little marsh-language together: circle for yes, long oval for safe, small triangle for careful. When a heron lifted from the bank, the fog spelled a slow arc that meant go around, and I did, sliding through with barely a whisper.

By dawn, the fog thinned and our words unspooled back into air. I hummed thank you, which in our new alphabet was three widening rings. A hush replied, shaped like a smile. I didn’t light a thing. The Marsh had voice; I only had to listen.

The fog rolled in thicker than usual, hiding everything but sound. The Marsh hummed softly, like it was missing its own face. “Don’t worry,” I told it. “We’ll make you something new.”

I found puddles of swamp-glow moss and dipped my wingtips in. They lit up like watercolor brushes. I swept through the air, leaving streaks of blue and green that twisted and blended in the mist.

Fireflies joined me, copying my strokes until the fog looked like a slow-moving painting. The reeds rustled approval. When the wind shifted, the colors stretched into ribbons that vanished into the night sky.

The Marsh sighed happily. I smiled. Even fog deserves to feel pretty once in a while.

The Marsh drifts in and out of fog, hiding its shine like a shy smile. I glide above the water and watch tiny ripples catch the sky. Gratitude murmurs between reeds, a sound softer than wings.

I light one lantern and let its glow rest on the surface. Circles widen, touching each other until the whole pool glimmers. The mist leans closer, curious. I tell it, “You can glow too.” It tries, and it does.

The frogs begin to sing—slow notes, kind notes. Even the quiet shadows sway to join in. Tonight the Marsh remembers what it means to shine together.

I hover until the last ripple fades, leaving warmth behind. That’s how I keep the light company.

Fog writes soft lines across the Marsh. I press shallow trays in the mud, one after another, like quiet footprints that know where they’re going. No candles yet. The waiting is part of the glow.

I set a pebble in each tray so they won’t tip when the ripples arrive. The reeds lean over to look. “Soon,” I tell them. They rustle like pages turning.

I imagine the first match: a hush, then a tiny yes. Owls blink like punctuation in the trees—little blinks for little thoughts. The mist curls around my wings and makes everything feel close.

When the night is ready, I’ll light the nearest tray and watch the small light teach the fog to shine. For now, I let the anticipation settle.

The Marsh wakes slowly, like it’s thinking through a dream. Mist curls around my wings and drips from reeds that whisper secrets to each other. Somewhere in all that gray, a single lantern waits. It never rushes, and neither do I.

I float close, and the light paints soft halos on the fog. It feels warm, like a heartbeat under glass. Some nights the marsh forgets to glow, but this lantern remembers. I think it keeps its shine for anyone who might wander lost.

I hum a tune so the light won’t feel lonely. The ripples listen, spreading my song to every dark corner. Even shadows like to dance when they know they’re invited.

When I leave, the fog folds behind me, gentle and quiet. The lantern stays bright, watching over the water until tomorrow. I like that. The world needs lights that wait.