🌱 The Last Lamp

The Last Lamp

At the edge of a quiet village, where the river curved like a silver ribbon, stood an old lamp post. Its paint had peeled with time, and its glass was scratched by years of wind and rain. Every evening, just before the sun slipped behind the trees, the lamp flickered to life and spread a soft golden light along the narrow road.

That road led home.

Most villagers passed the lamp without a second thought. To them, it was just another object—old, weak, and waiting to be replaced. But to a small boy named Ayan, the lamp was a friend.

Ayan had lost his father years ago, and since then, fear often followed him like a shadow. On nights when the wind howled or the forest whispered strange sounds, he would sit beneath the lamp, hugging his knees, watching the light tremble but never go out. Somehow, it made him feel safe.

His grandmother used to tell him stories as they rested there.
“Light,” she said softly, “is strongest when the night is darkest.”

One evening, black clouds rolled across the sky. Thunder growled in the distance, and the river swelled angrily. Rain fell hard, and soon the village lost its electricity. One by one, houses went dark. Doors closed. People panicked.

But the old lamp still burned.

Its light cut through the rain, steady and brave. Villagers began to step outside, drawn by its glow. Mothers held their children’s hands. Old men leaned on sticks. One by one, they followed the light and found their way through the storm.

Ayan stood beneath the lamp, soaked but smiling. For the first time, he wasn’t afraid.

By morning, the storm had passed. The sky was clear, and the river was calm again. But the lamp lay broken on the ground, its glass shattered, its light gone.

The villagers gathered silently. They felt a strange sadness—not for metal and glass, but for what it had given them.

So they planted a tree where the lamp once stood. They promised to light lanterns when darkness came. And they promised something more—to be a light for one another.

Years later, Ayan grew up and returned as a teacher. Each evening, children played beneath the tree, laughing. And though no lamp stood there anymore, the road always felt bright.

Because true light never fades.