Lanterns in the Fog

In Callum's days...

The first time he stopped at the chapel, it wasn't intentional. 

The sky wore a drizzle like sorrow refusing to fall all the way, and traffic had congealed halfway through his usual route back to the estate. His eyes, restless and scattered, drifted out of habit—until they landed on a modest stone chapel tucked against a moss-covered wall. Its steeple leaned slightly, ivy gripping the edges like memory clinging to time.

He hadn't stepped inside a church in years. Reverence had long since given way to realism. But that day, something softened—something frayed inside him, enough to pull over without thinking. 

The car stayed running. The chapel welcomed him with a creak, the wooden doors yawning like an old friend too tired for formality. Inside, the air was damp with the scent of rain and aged stone, threaded through with candle smoke and silence thick enough to drown a thought.

One other figure sat at the very back, unmoving. Callum didn't look. He didn't kneel. Not yet.

He stood in the hush, absorbing the unfamiliar stillness. Then moved slowly to the second row, lowering himself like gravity held meaning. Elbows on knees, fingers interlaced, he didn't speak. Couldn't. 

But he thought of her.

Of Sera. Somewhere beyond the border. 

In soil she'd studied, weather she'd trained for, conflict she never romanticized. Her voice echoed inside him—confident, practical, laced with something she never named. She'd said she'd return. She always did.

Callum closed his eyes.

"Please, protect them."

It was not polished. Not elegant. But it was everything.

From then on, he returned. 

Early mornings before briefings. After quiet dinners. Never long. Never dramatic. He left no name behind, no prayer cards or coins. But the pew knew him. 

---

At home, silence wrapped itself around corners like fog. 

Her scent lingered in the fibers—earthy perfume, that jasmine soap, the faint metallic trace from her ironed uniform sleeves. Her desk was untouched. Her pen left half-capped, poised above mission drafts she never discussed with him, words forever redacted by duty.

He paced gently, pockets heavy with the weight of inaction. 

He looked—but didn't touch. Until the window.

The ceramic frog still sat there. 

Chipped on one leg. Ugly. Perfect. 

She had bought it from a vendor who called it "lucky." Callum had rolled his eyes then, smiled despite himself.

"Lucky frog," he'd said with theatrical gravity.

Now, it stared out the window like it was waiting too.

---

The news was relentless. 

Rising tensions. 

Evacuations. 

Counterintelligence bursts in territories marked with red concentric circles. 

Callum didn't flinch. Didn't blink much, either. 

The sound was off. His pulse wasn't.

He memorized the towns. 

Their names. Their coordinates. 

Because she might be in one. Or none. Or somewhere unnamed altogether.

Jonas entered one night with tea, his presence quiet but stubborn.

"She'll be fine."

Callum nodded. But it was reflex, not belief.

---

On the fifth day, desperation took shape in motion. 

He drove to the Capital. 

No appointment. 

No real plan. 

Just an ache that demanded proximity to someone who knew.

The military headquarters was sterile with ceremony. A receptionist tried to smile him away, but a voice interrupted.

"Let him in."

Hadrian Elion stood by the window, coat open, rain framing him like a faded portrait. 

He didn't offer pleasantries. Just gestured.

"You look like hell."

"You always did have a way with greetings, sir."

Tea was poured, steam rising like ghosts of peace.

"Is she okay?" Callum asked.

Hadrian didn't respond immediately.

"If something had happened to my daughter, " he said, deliberate, cold, "you wouldn't need to ask."

Callum exhaled quietly. 

Let the silence refill him.

"You're not here for an update. You came for assurance."

And Callum didn't deny it. Couldn't.

---

Later that week, he stared at his phone. 

No updates. 

Just one old message: 

"Might be unreachable."

He typed:

"Jonas misses you."

Then deleted it.

Typed again:

"Come back home the way you left."

He hit send. 

Then, he turned the screen downward.

---

At the company gala, his suit fit fine. 

But nothing else did.

He answered the polite questions like reciting weather reports. 

Smiled at the right cues. 

Even when Dahlia approached, he didn't flinch. Just nodded, deflected, and vanished toward the exit.

Outside, cold air gnawed at his throat. 

He lit a cigarette, fingers trembling slightly. 

Watched the ember glow.

Then, dropped it. 

Crushed it beneath his heel like punctuation.

On the way home, the chapel waited again. 

Its doors were shut. 

But Callum stopped anyway.

Standing. 

Praying.