“The Last Candle”

The power went out just as the storm reached its height. Thunder rattled the windows, lightning split the sky, and suddenly the house plunged into absolute darkness. For a long moment, there was nothing but the sound of rain lashing against the roof and wind howling through the cracks of the old wooden doors.

Sara froze where she stood. She hated storms—not just because of the noise or the fear of the unknown, but because storms carried memories she had spent years trying to bury.

Her hands searched blindly across the cluttered table until her fingers brushed against the smooth wax of a candle. It was the last one left in the house, a short stub of white that had already been used on nights like this. She found the box of matches nearby and struck one with trembling fingers.

The flame leapt to life, small and fragile, before she lit the candle. At once, a soft golden glow spread across the living room, pushing the shadows back just far enough to give her comfort.

Sara sat down near it, hugging her knees to her chest. She exhaled shakily. She was alone in the house—alone in the city, it often felt.

She remembered another storm years ago. She had been ten, sitting in the same living room when her mother packed a suitcase and left into the rain. Sara had sat there crying, holding a candle in her hand, begging her mother not to leave. But the door had slammed shut, and she never came back.

From that night on, storms meant loss. Storms meant endings.

Her father had done his best to fill the emptiness that followed. He used to say, “Light is never just light, Sara. It’s memory. It’s hope. That’s why we keep candles around—because even the smallest flame can guide you home.”

Now even her father was gone. He had passed away last spring, and the house that once felt alive with his laughter and warmth had become unbearably silent.

The candle flickered gently, and Sara stared at it as though it were alive. The flame bent and swayed with the wind sneaking through the windows, but it never gave up. She leaned closer, whispering, “You’re small, but you’re still here.”

A part of her wondered if the candle’s stubborn glow was a reflection of her own life. She had let her dreams slip away over the years. She once wanted to write a book, maybe even travel, but instead she stayed. She worked a job that paid just enough to survive, kept to herself, and tried not to think about the things she had lost.

But as she sat there, she realized she had been living like the house—quiet, dim, waiting for someone else to bring light back in.

The storm raged on outside, louder than ever. Rain hammered the roof. The candle trembled in the wind’s breath, shrinking, nearly faltering. Sara’s heart jumped in panic as if she might lose something far greater than wax and flame.

But then, just as quickly, the flame straightened and burned brighter.

Tears blurred her eyes. She thought of her father again, his resilience, the way he always kept moving forward even after her mother left. He used to sit her down and say, “The world is full of storms, Sara. But you don’t fight them with strength—you fight them with light.”

The words echoed in her chest now.

Hours passed slowly. She wrapped a blanket around herself, but her gaze never left the candle. The living room walls seemed alive with shifting shadows, painted by the little flame. In those shadows, she saw pieces of her past: her father reading to her by lamplight, her mother’s laughter before life became heavy, her younger self writing stories by candlelight.

At one point, exhaustion nearly pulled her under. Her eyes fluttered, her body heavy, but she forced herself to stay awake. The flame became her anchor, her reason to keep breathing steadily.

Then, almost without realizing it, she noticed the storm easing. The thunder grew faint, the rain softened to a whisper. Slowly, pale morning light began to seep through the curtains. The storm had passed.

And still, the candle burned.

Sara rose to her feet, stretching stiff legs, and walked to the window. She drew the curtains back. The world outside looked different—washed clean by the rain, glistening with new life. The air smelled fresh, alive, as though even the earth had been waiting for this renewal.

She looked back at the candle. Its flame wavered, steady as ever. A small laugh escaped her lips, mixed with a sob.

For the first time in so long, she didn’t feel crushed by emptiness. She felt… lighter. Not because the grief was gone, but because she realized she could carry it differently now.

She walked to the table and leaned close. With a gentle breath, she blew the candle out. A thin ribbon of smoke curled upward, leaving the room dim again. But this time, she didn’t feel afraid of the dark.

Because the last candle hadn’t only survived the night—it had given her something back. It had reminded her that she was still here, still burning, and that even the smallest light could keep her moving forward.

Sara smiled softly and whispered, “Thank you.”

She didn’t mean the candle alone. She meant her father’s lessons, her own strength, the small sparks of hope she thought had died but hadn’t.

The storm was gone. And in its quiet aftermath, she finally felt ready to begin again.