In a little village cradled by the foothills of the Himalayas, where the air smelled of pine needles and monsoon promises, lived a boy named Arjun. He was ten years old, with a mop of untidy hair that danced in the breeze and eyes that sparkled like the river on a sunny day. Arjun’s home was a small mud house with a tin roof that rattled when the rains came, and his favorite place was the mango grove behind it—a tangle of gnarled trees that whispered secrets in the wind.

One evening, as the sky turned the color of ripe apricots, Arjun sat on the porch munching a chapati smeared with ghee. His grandmother, whom he called Dadi, was fussing over a dented brass lantern. Its glass was smudged, and the wick flickered weakly, casting trembling shadows on the wall.

“Arjun,” Dadi said, her voice soft like the rustle of dry leaves, “this lantern has been in our family for years. Your grandfather said it lights the way when the world grows dark. Tomorrow, take it to the grove and clean it properly. The mango trees will keep you company.”

Arjun nodded, though he wasn’t sure why a lantern needed cleaning under trees. Still, Dadi’s words had a magic to them, and he never questioned her too much. The next morning, with the sun peeking over the hills, he grabbed the lantern, a rag, and a small tin of oil, and scampered off to the grove.

The mango trees stood tall and quiet, their branches heavy with fruit that glowed like tiny suns. Arjun settled under the oldest tree, its trunk twisted like an old man’s spine, and began polishing the lantern’s glass. As he worked, a breeze stirred the leaves, and he thought he heard a faint hum—like someone singing far away. He stopped and listened, but the sound vanished, leaving only the chatter of a mynah bird overhead.

By noon, the lantern gleamed, its brass catching the sunlight. Arjun filled the oil and lit the wick, just to see. The flame danced, bright and steady, and for a moment, the grove seemed to shimmer. That’s when he noticed something odd—a shadow moved across the ground, but there was no one around to cast it. He blinked, rubbed his eyes, and looked again. The shadow stretched long and thin, then curled into the shape of a boy, no older than him.

“Who’s there?” Arjun called, his voice trembling only a little.

The shadow flickered, and a voice answered, soft as a whisper in the leaves. “I’m Vikram. I used to play here, long ago.”

Arjun’s heart thumped, but he wasn’t one to run from a mystery. “Are you a ghost?” he asked, clutching the lantern tighter.

The shadow laughed, a sound like water over pebbles. “Not quite. I’m a memory, tied to this grove—and that lantern. It belonged to my father. He’d light it every evening, and we’d sit here, counting stars.”

Arjun squinted at the shadow-boy. “Why are you still here?”

“I don’t know,” Vikram said. “Maybe I stayed because I loved this place too much to leave. But I’ve been alone a long time. Will you stay a while?”

Arjun thought about it. He wasn’t sure if shadows could be friends, but Vikram didn’t seem scary—just lonely. “All right,” he said. “But only if you tell me a story.”

So Vikram began. He spoke of the grove in years past—of chasing fireflies that glowed like tiny lanterns, of hiding from monsoon rains under the trees, of a kite that flew so high it tangled with the clouds. Arjun listened, the lantern glowing between them, its light spilling over the roots and leaves. The afternoon slipped away, and the sky turned a deep indigo, pricked with stars.

“See that one?” Vikram said, pointing with his shadowy hand. “The brightest star? My father said it’s a lantern for lost travelers.”

Arjun looked up, grinning. “Maybe it’s watching us now.”

As night fell, Vikram’s voice grew fainter. “The lantern’s light is strong again,” he said. “I think it’s time for me to go.”

“Go where?” Arjun asked, suddenly sad.

“Somewhere quiet,” Vikram replied. “Thanks for staying, Arjun. The grove won’t forget you.”

Before Arjun could say more, the shadow shimmered and dissolved, blending into the darkness. The lantern flickered once, then burned steady. Arjun sat there a while, the silence thick around him, until the crickets began their chorus.

When he returned home, Dadi was waiting. “You’ve been gone all day,” she said, peering at the lantern. “It looks brighter than ever.”

Arjun smiled. “It told me a story, Dadi. Or someone did.”

She raised an eyebrow but didn’t ask more. That night, as Arjun lay in bed, he thought of Vikram and the grove. He wondered if memories could linger like shadows, waiting for someone to light their way. Outside, the mango trees swayed, and the lantern sat on the porch, its glow a quiet promise against the dark.

The next day, Arjun went back to the grove, but Vikram didn’t appear. Still, he felt the trees were less lonely now, as if they held a secret only he knew. And every evening after, he’d light the lantern and sit beneath the stars, keeping the grove company—just in case.