The Last Lantern in the Storm

They left long before the rain did—

voices packed up in boxes,

names erased from the fogged windows,

memories still humming in the walls.

Now, only I remain.

One window cracked,

a leaking roof above a floor

that creaks like a tired sigh.

The world out there howls—

wind with a voice of grief,

rain that pelts like thrown stones.

But in the corner, still lit,

a small lantern sways.

Its flame dances like it doesn’t know

it’s alone.

It has seen things.

The peeling photographs,

the trembling goodbyes,

the promises whispered

like they meant to last forever.

It was there

when the power cut out,

when the laughter went silent,

when even the dog stopped waiting by the door.

I keep it lit—not for the room,

but for the soul.

Because something about that flicker

tells me I haven’t broken completely.

I’ve screamed into that storm,

voice swallowed by thunder,

but never let the light go.

Some nights I sit beside it,

knees to chest,

watching shadows stretch across the floor

like old regrets.

Each gust shakes the windows—

a test,

a threat,

a reminder.

But still it burns.

Still it refuses.

Like a heartbeat in a glass chest,

like the last note of a song

that refuses to fade.

We all carry one, I think—

a small fire inside

that won’t let go,

even when everything else does.

So when the world forgets me,

let it at least remember this:

I was the last lantern in the storm,

and I stayed lit.