The last candle burning

The village of Elnor had always been a place of light. Nestled in a quiet valley, the townsfolk celebrated life with festivals, lanterns, and laughter that echoed from the stone-paved streets. But one winter night, the skies turned gray, the winds howled with bitterness, and a heavy darkness fell upon the land. It was not the ordinary darkness of night, but a strange, living shadow that swallowed the stars, dimmed the moon, and smothered every lamp it touched.

By dawn, fear had spread through Elnor. Torches, fires, and lanterns all flickered out as though the night itself was feeding on them. Panic filled the villagers’ hearts, for nothing seemed to last—not even the sacred flames they had kept for generations. All except for one candle.

It sat in the small cottage of an old woman named Elara. She was known as the village storyteller, a woman of wisdom who had lived far longer than most. On her wooden table burned a single candle whose flame refused to die. Its light was gentle yet steady, casting a warm glow across the room even as shadows scratched at the windows outside.

Word spread quickly: Elara’s candle burns when no other will. Soon, villagers gathered around her home, shivering in the cold. Mothers held their children close, and fathers carried weary looks, their hearts heavy with dread. Elara stepped out into the gathering, the candle in her hands. Its flame danced, small but alive, and every eye was drawn to it as if it carried their very souls.

“This,” Elara said softly, “is not just wax and fire. It is hope. As long as it burns, the darkness cannot claim us.”

Some doubted her. “It is just a candle,” muttered a man in the crowd. “It will go out as all others have.”

But the children looked at the flame with wonder, as if it were the last star in a sky that had forgotten to shine.

That night, the villagers stayed close, sitting in circles around the candle. Elara told them stories of the past—tales of heroes who had faced storms, wars, and despair, yet had carried the light within them. Her voice wrapped around them like a blanket, and though the shadows pressed against the walls, none of them felt truly afraid while the candle burned.

Days passed. The village grew weaker. The fields could not be tended, and food became scarce. Yet the candle remained unchanged, its wax never melting beyond half, its flame never faltering.

One evening, a young girl named Lira tugged at Elara’s cloak. “Why does it keep burning, Grandmother? What makes it so different?”

Elara bent down, her eyes gleaming like the flame itself. “Because, child, this candle was lit not with fire alone, but with faith. Long ago, when the world was first touched by darkness, a flame was given to our ancestors. It is passed down only when there is someone who believes enough to carry it.”

The girl’s eyes widened. “So… it’s alive?”

“In a way,” Elara replied. “It burns as long as there are hearts that believe in light.”

But the darkness outside was not idle. Each night, it pressed harder, creeping closer. The villagers began to despair again. Some whispered of fleeing, though there was nowhere safe to run. Others began to argue, their fear feeding the very shadows they despised. The light of the candle grew dimmer with their doubts, as though the flame itself trembled under the weight of their hopelessness.

Then came the night when the wind grew violent, rattling doors and shaking the old woman’s cottage. The flame wavered, shrinking until it was no more than a tiny spark. A gasp of terror filled the room. “It’s dying!” someone cried.

Elara rose, her voice stronger than her frail body suggested. “No! The candle dies only if we surrender our hope. Do you not see? The darkness outside feeds on our despair, but this light—this small, fragile light—feeds on our belief. If you want it to burn, you must believe with all your hearts that it can.”

The villagers looked at one another. Some were silent, some fearful, but then a child’s voice rose above the murmurs. It was Lira.

“I believe,” she said, clutching her little hands together. “The light won’t leave us.”

Her words sparked something. Another child echoed her, then a mother, then a father. Slowly, one by one, voices filled the room, trembling at first but growing stronger. “We believe. We believe.”

The flame flickered, then grew brighter. Shadows hissed and recoiled as if wounded. The golden glow spread wider, spilling warmth into the cold air. The villagers cried out, tears streaming down their faces as they clung to the sight. The last candle burned brighter than ever, not because of wax or wick, but because a village’s heart had chosen hope over despair.

By dawn, the shadows withdrew, slithering back beyond the horizon. The sky, once suffocated by darkness, revealed its first morning light. Sunlight spilled across the valley, chasing away the remnants of the night’s curse. The villagers cheered, laughter breaking through their tears.

Elara placed the candle back upon her table, its flame still glowing softly, though now it seemed almost ordinary in the presence of the sun. She looked at the children, especially Lira, and smiled.

“Remember this,” she said. “The candle is not just wax and flame—it is within you. As long as you carry hope, there will always be light, even in the darkest night.”

The people of Elnor never forgot that winter. They rebuilt their homes and fields, and every year they lit candles