The Heart of the Loop

The barge drifts into the circular clearing as if the river has been holding its breath for this moment. The water here rotates in a slow, deliberate spiral — not violent, not urgent, just patient — and the stone formations lining the banks lean inward like witnesses. Your engine is long dead. You don't reach for it.

At the center of the circle, hovering a foot above the black water, is the lantern. Brass fittings gone green with age, the same hairline crack across the left panel your father always meant to repair. It burns with a steady amber flame that casts no reflection on the water below it. The river goes completely silent. No birdsong. No current. No sound from your own breathing.

You know this lantern. You watched it hang at the bow of every boat your father ever piloted. You watched them bury it with him. Your wrist is burning where the tattoo sits, and the lantern's flame leans toward you — just slightly — like recognition.