The lantern sat on the windowsill, its soft light brushing against the glass. The name tag lay beside it, still slightly curled at the edges from how long it had spent forgotten inside the nursery box.
Calen stood at the edge of the room, staring at it like it might fade again if he blinked.
It hadn't faded.
Not yet.
But that didn't mean it hadn't been taken before.
He spent the morning clearing out the garden.
It had grown untidy in the weeks since he'd started following the lantern's light—brambles along the stone wall, ivy creeping up the gate, weeds bursting between paving stones.
It felt good to do something ordinary.
He raked leaves, trimmed hedges, dug his hands into damp soil. He worked without gloves, without shoes, letting the cold earth sting beneath his fingernails.
But the name still sat at the back of his mind. Not the tag—he had memorized that now—but the space where the name had once lived.
Because the more he thought about it, the more he realized that he hadn't just forgotten the word.
He had forgotten the feeling of being called.
"You didn't used to speak much," Calix said that afternoon, handing him a mug of tea. "But people still knew who you were."
Calen looked down at the cup in his hands. "Did they?"
"Yeah," Calix said, quieter now. "But thinking back… it's weird. I don't remember anyone saying your name. Not once. Not even your grandmother."
Calen nodded. "That's what I've been thinking, too."
He took a sip. The tea had cooled, but it was steadying.
"She wrote it," Calen continued. "I found it in a notebook. She wrote my name, but never spoke it. Not around me."
"Why would she hide it?"
"I don't think she hid it. I think she was trying to keep it safe."
He opened her notebook again that evening—sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the altar, the lantern beside him.
He had flipped through these pages before, but never read them. Not with the kind of attention he was giving now.
The early pages were soft and ordinary.
"Market quiet today. Bread rolls still warm."
"Lantern wick replaced."
"Calen watched the sparrows in the windowsill for nearly an hour."
And then—
A turn.
"He's quieter lately. Not shy—hollow. He stands in doorways without entering. Stares through people, like he's listening to a voice no one else hears."
"I called him by name yesterday. He didn't turn."
"I tried again. Louder. He blinked… and walked away."
"That night, I found his name tag folded in his drawer, stitched side down. As if he was trying to hide from it."
"The light isn't protecting him anymore. But I don't know what else to do."
Calen's throat tightened.
He pressed his palm against the page.
The ink had not faded.
The memories had.
Later that night, he went up into the attic.
He hadn't set foot there since he was a child. The air was thick with dust. The only light came through the small round window under the eaves.
In the corner, he found the trunk.
Wooden. Worn. The metal hinges rusted but not broken.
Inside: an old cardigan that still smelled like lavender, a photograph of his grandmother standing in front of the garden gate, and beneath them—
A linen-wrapped box.
He opened it carefully.
Inside were letters.
At least two dozen.
All addressed the same way:
To Calen.
He didn't touch them at first.
He just stared.
Then slowly, he picked up the one at the top of the pile.
The paper was soft from age. The ink faded at the edges. Her handwriting—firm, neat, deliberate.
He didn't open it.
He wasn't ready.
The next morning, he took the name tag and the letter and walked to the old sycamore tree at the edge of the garden.
The air was sharp with early frost. A few dry leaves crunched beneath his boots.
He sat with his back against the trunk, the lantern beside him, the letter in his lap.
He didn't read it.
But he let it rest there.
And he said the name.
Not just whispered.
He said it.
"My name is Calen."
No wind answered.
No magic stirred.
But the lantern flared once.
Bright.
Steady.
And in that light, something clicked.
Not a memory.
Not a flash.
But a shift.
The sense that something—someone—knew he had spoken. And that the name was no longer missing.
It was claimed.
He stayed out there until the sun dipped behind the trees.
Then he stood, dusted off his coat, and walked back to the house—lantern glowing softly in his hand.
The letter was still unopened in his pocket.
But it didn't feel heavy anymore.
Just… patient.
Waiting.