You name what is in front of you, a list against the dark.

“Sky on a puddle. Tiny flame on a bubble—methane, marsh gas. Not a lantern spirit.” The coins drift. They do not take your shoes.

If a scream rises, you give it a true name: fox, owl, wind in a cavity—not a banshee. A duet plus an uncle’s story, if you already met the singers. If not, you still do not invent a woman.

“Charge on wet metal, if the mast is glowing. Thunder after light because sound is slower.” You count. The number is a friend.

Jonah, if he is here, says the names after you, clumsier, then steadier. Naming does not kill the shiver. It puts a handle on it. You still like the stories. You like them the way you like scary movies when you know where the door is.

Aunt Mara reaches you in time to hear the list, which makes her laugh in her chest. “That’s my researcher,” she says. “Brave is not the same as loud. But loud-and-accurate is allowed.”

The dark is still dark. You are still in it. The list is a rope that does not need to haul your body, only your thoughts.

THE END

What you learned: speaking real causes—gas, animals, wind, electricity—makes fear smaller without making the marsh ordinary. Folklore can stay as culture. Bravery can be a list you can say in a storm.