Where the Promise Lands: Part 2

I don’t remember when the dream begins.

I’m standing in the middle of a crowd.

Lantern light flickers against unfamiliar faces. The air smells like smoke and salt, like the shoreline during Luminar night. Everyone is looking up at the sky.

I’m not.

I’m looking for someone.

I move between people, shoulders brushing past me, voices blurring into noise. The lantern in my hand feels warm. Too warm.

“Dad?” I call out.

No one turns.

I keep walking. The crowd grows thicker. The lights grow brighter. I spot a figure near the edge of the harbor, just beyond the glow.

I think it’s him.

I push forward.

But the closer I get, the more distant he becomes, like he’s standing behind glass I can’t see.

The lantern slips from my fingers.

The flame touches my skin.

I wake up before it burns.

The ceiling fan is still clicking.

Morning light filters through the curtains. For a moment, I lie still, trying to remember the last time I dreamed about him like that.

It’s been years.

I sit up and rub my eyes.

Today is Luminar.

From the kitchen, I can already hear my mom moving around. She hums when she’s in a good mood. She’s humming now.

“You’re awake?” she calls.

“Yeah.”

“You didn’t oversleep for once. That’s progress.”

I smile faintly and join her.

She’s laid out clothes on the dining chair, nothing fancy, just something she thinks looks “presentable.”

“You’ll be near the harbor tonight,” she says. “It gets windy. Wear something warm.”

“I’ll survive.”

“You always say that.”

We eat quietly. The news mentions road closures for Luminar preparations. Drone permissions. Crowd estimates.

The city sounds excited.

I don’t mention the dream.

The wind near the harbor is stronger than usual.

Lantern rehearsals have already begun, a few rising early, drifting above the darkening water like quiet stars finding their place.

Claire and I step away from the noise, closer to the edge where the crowd thins.

“It’s my favorite night of the year,” she says.

“Because of the lights?” I ask.

She shakes her head slightly. “Because everyone looks hopeful. Even the ones pretending they’re not.”

I watch a lantern lift into the air.

“I used to think Dad was somewhere up there,” I say before I can stop myself.

She turns to me. Not surprised. Just attentive.

“Up there?”

“In the sky. During Luminar. I don’t know why. I just… felt like if I looked long enough, I’d see him.”

The admission feels strange once it’s spoken aloud.

She doesn’t smile this time.

“You don’t talk about him much,” she says gently.

“I don’t remember enough to miss him properly.”

The words sound colder than I mean them to.

She steps a little closer, not dramatic, not obvious, just enough that our shoulders touch.

“You don’t need full memories to miss someone,” she says. “Sometimes it’s just the space they leave.”

I look at her.

The lantern light reflects in her eyes, softer than the city lights behind us.

“You always say things like that,” I murmur.

“Like what?”

“Like you’ve already figured everything out.”

She laughs quietly. “Trust me. I haven’t.”

The wind lifts a strand of her hair across her face. Without thinking, I brush it aside.

It’s a small gesture. Simple.

But neither of us steps away.

For a moment, the noise of the harbor fades. The music, the crowd, the rising lanterns, all of it blurs into background.

“You’re not as ordinary as you pretend to be,” she says softly.

“I am,” I reply.

She shakes her head.

“No. You just don’t see it yet.”

And for a second, I almost believe her. Dumb me.

By evening, the harbor is crowded.

Lanterns are stacked in careful rows. Children tug at their parents’ sleeves. Music hums through the air like a heartbeat building rhythm.

Ethan is filming everything. Dev is calculating how many people are violating basic fire safety principles. Claire disappears into the organizing crowd.

I stand near the railing, watching the first official lantern release.

The sky slowly begins to fill.

Light after light rising upward.

For a second, I forget the dream.

Forget everything else.

A voice beside us breaks the quiet.

“You’re Daniel’s boy, aren’t you?”

I turn.

An older man stands a few steps away. Late fifties. Upright posture. Calm eyes.

“Yes,” I say carefully.

He studies my face for a long moment.

“You have his eyes,” he says.

My chest tightens.

“You knew him?”

He nods once.

“I served with him.”

Lanterns continue rising behind us, steady, silent.

He extends his hand.

“Marcus.”

I shake it.

And something about the way he looks at me feels like the beginning of a story I didn’t know I was part of.