The Lantern of the Heart

In a quiet village nestled at the foot of ancient mountains, there lived an old man named Sulaiman. Known for his wisdom, he rarely spoke unless necessary and spent most of his days in a humble cottage near the forest’s edge. People came to him for advice, but he never gave direct answers—only stories and silence.

One winter, a young man named Hamza arrived, weary from travel and worn by restlessness. His eyes, though youthful, bore the weight of unasked questions.

“I’ve traveled far, Sulaiman,” Hamza said, bowing respectfully. “I seek peace. The world is loud, my heart louder still. I’ve read many books, met many scholars, yet I feel empty.”

Sulaiman looked at him with gentle eyes, then gestured toward the forest. “Come,” he said simply.

They walked in silence for some time, the snow crunching beneath their feet. The forest seemed asleep, yet alive in its stillness. Finally, they reached a small clearing where a single, ancient tree stood—its branches bare, but its trunk wide and deeply rooted.

Sulaiman sat beneath the tree and motioned for Hamza to do the same.

“Tell me,” Sulaiman began, “what do you hear?”

Hamza closed his eyes. “The wind. The creak of branches. My own breathing.”

“Good,” the old man said. “Now listen deeper.”

Hamza strained to hear more, but all he found was silence.

Frustrated, he opened his eyes. “There’s nothing.”

Sulaiman smiled. “Exactly. It is in the nothing where everything begins.”

For three days, Hamza stayed with Sulaiman. They spoke little, rising with the sun and sitting by the tree. On the fourth morning, Sulaiman handed him a small lantern—unlit, yet warm to the touch.

“This is the Lantern of the Heart,” he said. “It does not burn with oil or flame. To light it, you must go alone into the cave of silence.”

Hamza furrowed his brow. “Where is this cave?”

Sulaiman pointed not to the mountains but to Hamza’s chest.

“It is within.”

Confused but trusting, Hamza took the lantern and left. He wandered the forest, then climbed a nearby hill and sat alone, holding the lantern in his lap. The hours passed. His mind raced—memories, worries, ambitions—all like birds trapped in a cage.

Then came nightfall. The stars emerged like ancient watchers. Hamza closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Slowly, he began to let go. Not of the world, but of the weight he carried within it.

He listened.

Not with his ears, but with his being.

And in that deep stillness, something stirred—not a voice, but a knowing. A feeling of being held by something greater, yet intimate. It was as if the universe itself exhaled peace into his soul.

He looked down.

The lantern glowed.

A soft, steady light—not bright, not loud—but alive.

Hamza returned to Sulaiman, holding the lantern close.

“I felt it,” he whispered. “A presence. Not outside, but within.”

Sulaiman nodded. “The soul is not a traveler of roads, but of depths. What you seek was never far. The noise you heard was the heart knocking—asking to be let in.”

From that day forward, Hamza remained in the village. He spoke less, smiled more, and walked with a calmness that drew others in. He no longer chased answers. He listened—and in that listening, he became a guide for others, as Sulaiman once was.

Years later, when Sulaiman passed, Hamza placed the glowing lantern at the foot of the ancient tree. It never went out.