This post is part of the ongoing Evernight series — a journey through darkness, dreaming, and rebirth. Each entry stands alone, yet together they tell the story of how light learns to live among shadows. If you’re new, you might begin with earlier chapters — or simply start here, where the carving begins.
The Season of Hollowing and Becoming
Autumn comes quietly at first — a single golden leaf trembling on a branch, a chill whisper in the late air, the scent of woodsmoke curling like memory. But soon it deepens into something more deliberate. The days shorten, the world exhales, and nature begins her art of transformation.
There’s a strange comfort in this season — this time of endings that feel like openings. Trees shed their summer selves, not in defeat, but in faith. They trust the dark months to reshape them. And humans, too, find ritual ways to mirror this courage.
We carve.
We take something whole and unblemished — a bright pumpkin, firm and round — and we cut into it. Not out of cruelty, but out of creativity. We scoop away the flesh, open a hollow space, and light a flame within. What was once a symbol of harvest becomes a lantern of hope.
In that act lies an ancient spell: to face darkness not by denying it, but by shaping it into beauty.
The Story of the Hollow One
Once, long ago — or perhaps soon, in some corner of Evernight — there was a village that had forgotten its light. The moon hid behind endless clouds, and even the stars seemed to sleep.
The villagers had candles, but fear made their hands tremble too much to strike a flame. They said the night was cursed, that any spark would anger the shadows. So they sat together in dimness, whispering stories of how bright things used to be.
Then, one evening, a small child found a pumpkin outside the baker’s door — left behind, half-frozen by early frost. She lifted it with effort and carried it home. Her mother said, “It’s no use. It’s gone soft.”
But the girl only smiled. “It still has room,” she said.
That night, while everyone else hid from the dark, the girl cut into the pumpkin with her dull kitchen knife. She scraped and scooped until the gourd was hollow, smooth inside — a small world waiting for fire. Then she placed her tiny candle within and lit it.
The flame flickered wildly at first, uncertain, as if remembering how to be brave. Then it steadied — golden, alive.
The villagers saw it through the window. Some gasped, some crossed themselves, some wept. But one by one, they came closer, drawn by the soft warmth that painted their faces in color again.
By dawn, every window in the village glowed. Not from fearlessness, but from shared courage — the kind that begins with one small, trembling light.
The Metaphor of the Hollow
We are all pumpkins in some way — whole, round, and temporary. Life hollows us out, scoops away pieces we thought we needed. We grieve what’s lost, not realizing that the emptiness makes space for something else to shine through.
Transformation isn’t gentle work. The carving hurts. The knife of experience is sharp. But through that opening, light finds a home.
It’s easy to think of darkness as the enemy — as the thing that swallows or hides the flame. But in truth, the night is what makes the light visible. A lantern means nothing at noon. It’s only when surrounded by shadow that its glow becomes sacred.
So when the world feels dim — when your own spirit feels scraped clean — remember the pumpkin. Remember the hands that carve. Remember that hollowing is not destruction; it’s preparation.
The Light Within Us
The candle inside us doesn’t stay lit by accident. It burns through care, through attention, through breath. Sometimes we must shield it with cupped hands when the wind rises. Sometimes we share it with another who’s lost their spark, knowing that flame shared is flame multiplied, not divided.
And so Evernight shifts again — not to dawn yet, but to that tender hour when even the dark begins to soften. Lanterns flicker in windows. The air smells of spice and rain. Somewhere, laughter rises like the first birdsong before morning.
The world hasn’t changed entirely, but it’s changing.
And maybe — so are we.
Reflection
If you could carve a lantern from your life, what shape would you give it? What story would its light tell to the night?
Take a quiet moment this week to honor the parts of yourself you’ve let go — and the space they’ve made for illumination. You are not broken by your hollows. You are made radiant by them.
Coming Next: Part 6 — The Lantern Path
The night deepens, but the light begins to move. In the next chapter, the lanterns of Evernight form a trail through fog and memory, guiding wanderers toward something they can’t yet name — a home that waits beyond fear.
