Mira inherited three things when her grandmother died: a house that leaned like a tired shoulder, a debt she could not read the amount of, and a paper lantern that refused to stay lit.
The debt notice came on grey paper, in a script that rearranged itself whenever she tried to total the figure. The lantern came in a box marked do not apologize to it. She lit it anyway, because the house was cold and grief is a kind of cold that candles do not touch.
The flame caught, guttered, and spoke. "You owe me," it said, in a voice like a match being struck underwater.