The Faint Bodhi's Guiding Light

Yun Miao carried a lantern.

It was plain in color. Its frame was neither bamboo nor wood, and felt smooth and warm as jade to the touch. No one knew how many years it had endured; time had given it a simple, matte finish. The lampshade was even stranger: neither paper nor silk, it was as thin as a cicada's wing yet remarkably tough. Ancient patterns, difficult to make out, seemed to flow across it, resembling Sanskrit or cloud-script. There was no candle inside, only a quiet, pulsing flame the size of a pigeon's egg, its pale, ghostly light condensed and undispersed. It cast a soft yet penetrating glow across the three feet around Yun Miao. The light drove away the darkness but brought little warmth. Instead, it made the plain cloth dress she had washed until it faded look even more cold and austere.