A New Year’s Miracle The first snow had come early that year. It dusted the roof of Saint Elaria’s Orphanage like ash, turning the old slate grey to white. Inside, the heating pipes throbbed and hissed, and forty-three children waited for the night to fall so they could do the only thing that still felt like tradition: release the lanterns. It was an old tradition. Miss Hallow, the caretaker, said it began when Saint Elaria herself had lived: a woman who once sent her prayers into the sky so the stars could carry them to heaven. Every New Year’s Eve, the children of the orphanage followed the same ritual, lighting paper lanterns and letting them rise into the night sky. Miss Hallow, their caretaker, moved between them with scraps of paper in her hands. Torn notebook pages, faded flyers, and old forms were all that was left. “Write something,” she said, her voice raspy from the cold, “Anything you want this year.” She looked at each child for a second, long enough for them to feel the weight of her eyes. The children finished their lanterns in silence. Some of the candles wobbled and melted unevenly, dripping wax onto the paper, but nobody cared. The lanterns just had to go up. Agnes picked hers up carefully, glancing at the others. Some of the little ones were shivering so badly; their hands couldn’t hold the paper straight. Locke helped steady one of them, muttering something under his breath about gravity, but the child just laughed, spilling wax on their sleeve. When they finally stepped onto the roof, the city below roared with fireworks and shouting, but up here, it felt like the world had shrunk to just the orphanage and the cold night air. Snow clung stubbornly to the edges of the roof, wetting their shoes and making the lanterns tilt and wobble with each gust of wind. Agnes crouched for a second, checking the candle flame, and felt it buzz against her palm. One year, the wind had caught hers at just the wrong angle, and the flame had leapt, scorching the sleeve of the youngest boy before anyone could react. He had cried, and the fire had been smothered in seconds, but she still remembered—the smell of burnt cloth, the way everyone froze. Even now, her fingers trembled slightly whenever she lit the candle, checking and rechecking to make sure the flame stayed small. Riddhi Sandeep 8E Full Story:
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