Tight Grip

My fingers twitched. Hard. Then they clamped shut. I looked down at what I held—the smooth, translucent orange lantern resting on my lap. It belongs to me. Every curve, every scrap of light filtering through it. Mine. I pulled it an inch closer against my chest, scanning the weathered stone walls and the shadowy corners around the seat. Quiet. Empty. Good. No one is taking this. I dug my heels into the dusty floor, refusing to budge from my seat, keeping both hands locked firmly around the handle.