The Lantern in the Fog

Elijah was not rich by the world’s measure. His coat was frayed at the cuffs, his shoes softened with years. But there was a wealth in his eyes — the kind that made people feel seen, as if they had been invisible until that moment.

Each morning, he walked the same streets, greeting shopkeepers by name, handing out warm tea to anyone shivering on the corner. He didn’t preach, didn’t judge, didn’t bargain. He simply gave — a smile, a word, a presence that could quiet storms in the mind.

One rainy evening, a young woman sat on the curb, mascara streaking down her cheeks. Elijah knelt beside her, rain soaking his shoulders. “You’re not alone,” he said, with a certainty that made her believe it. She never forgot that night. Years later, she would tell her children about the stranger who carried light in his hands.

Elijah’s secret was simple: he measured life not by what he owned, but by how many hearts he could lift higher than his own. And in a world obsessed with climbing, he was the rare soul who built ladders for others to rise.

Fiction

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