Ranger Dev talks like the marsh is a colleague. He will not let you leave with only half the night.

“Peat is plants that did not finish becoming dirt,” he says. “Packed, wet, years deep. Step off the boards and you are asking a sponge to be a sidewalk. Methane is a gas those plants make when they rot without enough air. Sometimes it bubbles. Sometimes a tiny flame rides the bubble. Sometimes the ‘flame’ is just the sky taking a nap on a puddle. Folklore gathered all that into a spirit with a lantern. The spirit was a warning: stay on the path.”

He clicks his own light at the tree line. Two coins flash back, then bounce. “Eyes. Tapetum lucidum. A mirror behind the retina. Dogs, foxes, cats—lots of night-workers. Not cursed lanterns. Biology saving photons.”

If a wet black mutt is already leaning on your knee, that is the lesson walking. If she is still only a rumor on the dike, her name is Nettle, and the black-dog stories have been borrowing her since spring.

Jonah, if he is here, mutters, “That’s still magic. Just… regular magic.”

Dev almost smiles. “Weather radio in the boat shed is dropping. Barometer too. You can make the night useful at the kitchen table, or you can watch the instruments while the sky practices electricity. Either way: boards. Collar that mutt if she is loose. Keep her close if she already picked you.”

Aunt Mara’s text: Proud of the questions.