Hearth of One Flame

I move through the silence.

The dark stretches in layers,

dense and patient,

and I sense the lantern before I see it.

Its flame is small,

yet it claims the space around it

with a gentle insistence.

It trembles like an eruption about to happen,

a hesitation that speaks louder than certainty.

I draw closer.

The light brushes the edges of shapes,

revealing only enough

to keep the shadows guessing.

It does not shout.

It does not demand.

It waits.

The warmth touches me without touching,

a quiet invitation

to linger, to notice,

to understand what is steady in a world that moves

without pause.

A moth flutters near,

its movement reckless and drawn.

I think of all the small things

that are drawn to a light

without knowing why.

Perhaps the lantern is like that,

a center for wandering hearts,

a memory of calm in the dark.

I reach a little closer.

The glass hums faintly,

the flame sways

in rhythm with something deep inside.

I am aware now that I am not alone

even in the vast stretch of shadow.

I linger.

The world contracts,

the darkness softened

by this single, unassuming flame.

Its light is not loud,

not heroic,

but it is certain.

It holds a promise

that movement toward it

is enough.

I step into the circle it makes,

and the night becomes different,

less threatening, less distant.

The lantern does not change.

It does not bend to me or to the night.

It simply exists,

steady,

a small point of warmth and clarity,

and I am drawn into it,

drawn into the possibility

that even a single light

can become home.