The Crow and the Candle

In a land where shadows ruled the sky, and the wind whispered secrets through the trees, lived a crow named Kael. Unlike other crows who flew in flocks and chased shiny things, Kael was a loner. He had glossy black feathers and eyes like midnight, always watching, always wondering.

Kael made his home in the tallest tree near the edge of a forgotten village. The village had been cursed with darkness for many years—no stars, no moonlight, and no fire would last through the night. Candles melted too fast. Lanterns flickered and died. Even the bravest villagers feared the endless night.

One cold evening, as Kael searched for food near an abandoned cottage, he spotted something strange: a small, flickering light. It was not a fire, nor the usual false glows that haunted the woods. It was a candle. A real one.

Kael flew closer. The candle sat in a glass lantern on the cottage windowsill, its flame steady despite the wind. Beneath it, an old woman sat, her eyes closed in deep thought. She looked tired but peaceful. The candle cast a warm glow on her wrinkled face.

For reasons he could not explain, Kael stayed. He perched on the windowsill and watched. The old woman opened her eyes and smiled gently.

“You came,” she whispered. “I was waiting.”

Kael tilted his head, confused.

“You are not like the others,” she continued. “You see more than darkness. You feel the silence. And you, like me, remember the light.”

Kael didn’t understand everything she said, but her voice was like a soft wind—comforting and kind.

The candle burned through the night. The next morning, it was still lit. For the first time in years, the sun peeked through the clouds. Just a little, just enough. Kael felt warmth on his feathers that he had almost forgotten.

Every night after that, Kael returned to the cottage. The old woman would light the candle, sit in silence, and wait. Slowly, other animals joined—an old fox, a sleepy owl, even a shy deer. None of them spoke, but all came for the same reason: the light.

The villagers began to notice. Some whispered, “The curse is lifting.” Others were too afraid to believe. But one by one, they crept out of their homes and walked to the edge of the forest. There, in the darkest part of the night, they saw it—a warm, glowing candle surrounded by creatures great and small.

One child stepped forward. Then another. Then an elder. Together, they sat in silence, eyes wide with wonder.

One night, as Kael arrived at the window, he found the candle burning—but the old woman was gone. In her place lay a note, written on soft bark with glowing ink:

> “The flame belongs to you now. Keep it burning. Let it guide the lost. Let it warm the forgotten.”



Kael stood silently beside the flame. He felt sadness, but not despair. He understood. She had passed on the light—not just the candle, but the duty.

Kael took the candle in his claws and flew to the center of the village. He placed it on a stone pedestal in the square. The people gathered around, watching as the flame did not flicker, did not die.

From that day forward, the village changed. Each home lit a small candle from the one Kael had carried. Light returned to windows, to hearts, to the paths between homes. Fear faded like mist in the morning sun.

Kael still flew alone, but now he watched over a village no longer afraid of the dark. And every night, before resting in his tree, he circled the pedestal where the candle burned on—a symbol of hope, of memory, and of the power one small light can carry through the night.


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Moral of the Story:

Even in the darkest times, a single light can guide many. Courage is not always loud—it sometimes flickers quietly and waits to be seen.