The Real Love in This World

My name is Leo, and I live on Sunny Lane. At the corner bakery, the air smells like warm bread and sugar. One summer, when I was twelve, I met a girl there.

Her name was Mira. She was a beautiful, lovely young girl with kind eyes and a brave smile. People looked happier when she walked by, like the sun had stepped into the street. She liked to help. She also liked to paint, but not only on paper.

The wall behind the bakery was gray and dull. Mira wanted to make it bright. She brought buckets of paint and a small stool. I was shy, but I asked if I could hold the stool so it would not slip. She smiled and said, “Yes, please.”

That day we painted waves, stars, and little boats. The old ladies from the park watched and gave us lemonade. A boy on a scooter rang his bell in time with our brushes. I told Mira about my grandma, who was ill and tired. I wanted to cheer her up.

Mira listened with care. She said, “Let us make a light parade for her.” We did not have much money. But we had ideas, and we had time. We asked neighbour for old jars. We put candles inside and tied ribbons on the handles.

We painted the jars with simple shapes. Hearts, moons, and smiling fish swam across the glass. At night the jars looked like tiny planets. We hung them along Sunny Lane from window to window. Even Mr. Arun, the strict shopkeeper, helped by bringing a long ladder.

On the day of the parade, dark clouds gathered. Rain began to fall in sharp lines. The wicks hissed and went out. I felt my hope fall too. Mira took my hand and said, “Real love does not run from rain. Real love brings an umbrella.”

She ran to the shops and asked for clear bags. We covered each jar like a tiny raincoat. Mr. Arun let us use his big porch. The old ladies held their umbrellas over the ladder. Children lined up with towels. Soon the jars were safe, and the candles glowed again.

When the sky grew dark, we started the parade. Soft lights swung like stars on strings. Neighbors clapped and walked with us. We passed the park, the bus stop, and the mural Mira had painted. I looked up at the hospital window. Grandma was there with her nurse.

She waved at me. I held up a jar with a bright heart painted on it. Mira stood beside me with a jar that had a moon. We stopped and counted to three. Then we lifted the jars high. The glow touched the glass like warm hands. Grandma smiled.

The power on our street went out for a while, but no one was scared. Our jars lit the way. We shared warm bread from the bakery. We sang an easy song.

After the parade, I walked with Mira to the oak tree. We tied two jars to a low branch, so the lights would greet early walkers. I said, “You saved the night.” She shook her head and said, “We all saved it, together. That is the real love in this world.”

She was right. Love is not only roses or big words. It is a hand holding a stool. It is a voice saying, “I am here.” It is sharing jars, bread, songs, and time. It is standing in the rain and smiling anyway. It is helping light a window for someone you love.

Now, when I pass the bakery, I still see the soft glow in the glass. I still hear Mira’s song. Grandma feels better, and we visit her after school with fresh tea. On the oak tree branch, the two jars swing in the wind. They remind me what love looks like.

It is not loud. It is kind. It is simple and strong, like a steady light in a dark street. And if you ever forget, come to Sunny Lane. Look for the wall of waves and stars, and the two jars by the oak. You will see the real love in this world.

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