The Lantern Maid

In the south lane lived a girl, Ying, who made lanterns for a living. Her paper lamps had clever frames and thin gauze, and in ordinary light seemed nothing strange. The odd part: at deep night, once the candle burned, the wall always held a figure—hands clasped behind, like her dead husband.

Neighbors first thought it a trick; in time they shrank from her, calling the lamps haunted. Ying heard and smiled faintly: "No haunting. My husband loved to stand by the lamp reading; his shadow fell on the plain wall, and I grew used to it. The lamp is the old lamp, the wall the old wall—only my heart has not forgotten, so the shadow comes with the flame."

An old servant who once helped in her house told others privately: "The lady works no spell. In each frame, hidden, she knots a thread from her husband's old robe. The candle's heat loosens it, and the shadow appears. It is a knot of devotion, not a ghost."

A youth heard and went to see; sure enough, the wall held a figure, sleeves clear, turning as if alive. He sighed: "Men call the strange a haunting, not knowing that the strangest thing under heaven is feeling."

At year's end Ying fell ill and knew her end. She burned all her lanterns in the yard. As the fire rose, the wall's shadow grew large, as if a hand reached to steady her, then dissolved with the smoke.

Next day, in the ashes, one thread remained unburned, the color of an old robe.

It is said: the lamp dies and the shadow goes, but feeling does not. What Ying left was neither lamp nor shadow, but a matter of the heart that would not grow cold. Men seek to forget; the one concerned refuses—and that is why it is strange.