This is a ship.

It doesn’t creak, but it remembers creaking.

There is no wind in its sails, but the sails hang anyway — taut with choices never made.

Below deck, there are no crew. Just echoes. Just impressions of arguments that never reached shouting. Of laughter that never quite made it to joy.

This is not a haunted ship.

But it has been visited. More than once. By people who thought they were alone.

Today, it sails through a sky the colour of old paper. A thousand unmoving stars blink softly above. None of them are real. All of them are watching.

A woman sits cross-legged on the main deck, eyes shut, a cracked lantern in her lap. She holds the handle like it’s a secret. Or a trap.

Opposite her, a boy with too many freckles and not enough fear mirrors her posture, his own lantern flickering like it’s nervous.

Between them lies a coiled thread. Frayed at one end, burning slow at the other. It hisses quietly, a fuse that never runs out.

They are playing The Lantern Game.

The rules are never spoken.

But you know them.

The first to open their lantern loses.

The first to cry out loses.

The first to forget why they sat down in the first place — loses.

Around the ship, the sea shifts. Not water — just the idea of water. Painted silk that rises and falls like breath held too long.

Shapes flicker beneath it. Faces. Moments. Versions of yourself you’ve never been brave enough to meet.

The ship doesn’t care.

It has carried worse.

The woman’s lips twitch — not a smile, but the ghost of one. She leans forward slightly. The boy leans back.

The thread between them pulses once, and the ship leans with it.

“Do you remember your name?” she asks softly.

The boy blinks. “Which one?”

She doesn’t answer.

The sky tilts. A soundless bell tolls from nowhere. The thread smoulders just a little faster.

The boy’s lantern rattles.

He doesn’t flinch. But you do.

Because you know what’s inside.

You always knew what’s inside.

The woman opens her eyes. They’re pale, reflective — like she’s made of the same stuff as the stars.

“You’ve been here before,” she says.

The boy opens his mouth — then stops.

He nods.

So does the ship.

So does the thread.

She reaches out — one hand, slow, open. An offering. Or a warning.

The boy hesitates.

Then he does the same.

Their fingers meet, just above the fuse.

The thread goes dark.

Both lanterns crack.

Both stay closed.

Neither loses.

The ship sighs.

Somewhere behind you, a door that was never there swings open with a sound like a memory being returned.

The game is over.

But the rules remain.

They always do.

And it still sails.