From Akiko Kinoshi on Dec 20, "The Darkest Night - a particle show
by Delain Canucci and Kurk Mumfuzz
Recorded Dec 20 2025 at Loon Lake Park in Calas Galadhon
"The Darkest Night in Calas:
On the darkest winter night, Calas lay silent beneath a sky of deep shadow.
The ancient pines stood tall and still, their branches heavy with snow.
The frozen lake shimmered like glass, untouched and endless.
No voices.
No footsteps.
Only the wind, weaving through the trees like an old song half-remembered.
Among the woods, scattered were a few quiet cabins, small flames glowing faintly within,
but most of Calas was wild, watchful, waiting.
At the forest’s edge, where the shadows deepened,
a single warm light flickered in a small wooden workshop.
Inside worked Corin, the lanternmaker.
His lights were not made for streets or houses,
but for hearts, for memory, and for those who walked the long dark paths.
Though fewer and fewer remembered him now,
he continued his work
quietly,
alone.
The Knock
Just after midnight, while the forest held its breath,
a soft knock echoed at the workshop door.
Corin opened it.
A child stood there, one of the few who lived in a distant cabin among the pines.
His coat was heavy with snow, his eyes wide with cold and something like hope.
In his hand he held an old lantern, dented and lifeless.
“This belonged to my grandmother,” the child whispered.
“She lit it every winter, and the forest felt warm.
But now it won’t shine anymore.”
Corin nodded with gentle understanding.
“Come inside.”
The Memory Light
The workshop smelled of woodsmoke, pine sap, and melting wax.
Corin placed the lantern upon his workbench.
“To return its light,” he said soft and steady,
“we must remember the warmth it once carried.
Flame is not enough.
The heart must return as well.”
So the child began to speak.
Of walking through deep snow with laughter echoing between the trees.
Of warm bread shared beside a crackling fire.
Of stories told while the winter winds howled outside.
Of feeling safe.
Of being loved.
Corin listened in stillness.
And as the child remembered,
something shifted,
not just in the lantern,
but in the room itself.
He touched flame to wick.
The lantern glowed.
Not bright.
Not sharp.
But warm, a golden memory that breathed.
The Light Spreads
The glow shone out into the forest night.
Animals paused in their tracks.
Owls blinked from snowy branches.
Foxes lifted their heads to watch.
Even the ancient deer moved quietly from the shadows.
They gathered, not in fear,
but drawn by the gentle return of warmth they had almost forgotten.
Those in the scattered cabins stepped outside, lanterns in hand,
old, dusty, silent.
They did not speak.
They brought them to the child’s flame
and one by one, the lights awakened.
Soon, Calas glowed.
Small warm lanterns hung from branches,
rested on cabin windowsills,
and shone across the frozen lake.
The forest was not made bright.
It was made alive.
The darkness did not vanish.
But it grew kind.
Morning
When dawn rose pale and soft,
the storm had passed.
“Will the lanterns stay lit forever?”
the child asked.
Corin smiled.
“No light lasts by itself.
But we can always choose to kindle it again.
Especially on the longest nights.
Especially for the ones we miss.”
The child understood.
The Tradition
Now, each winter when the nights grow long,
the forest of Calas fills with lanterns.
Not to chase away the dark,
but to welcome it.
Because the beings of Calas learned:
Light is warmest near the deep night.
Comfort is felt most when cold surrounds us.
And love continues
wherever we choose to remember it."
