The rain had been falling all evening, hitting the tin roof simultaneously like a thousand drumming fingers. Ada sat by the window, clutching the last candle in the house. The electricity had gone hours ago, and her phone was down to three percent. She wasn’t afraid of the dark. At least, that’s what she kept telling herself.
Her grandmother used to say, “A candle is more than light, but is hope. Protect it as you would protect your own life” Ada thought it was just one of those old sayings until tonight, when the shadows in the room seemed to move with a life of their own.
She struck a match, shielding the tiny flame from the breeze that slipped through the cracks of the wooden walls. The candle flickered to life, pushing back the darkness just enough for her to see the family photographs on the wall. Her father’s smile, her mother’s eyes. Both gone now, leaving Ada to fight through life alone.
But the candle did something more than light up the room. It awoke memories. She remembered the day her parents left for the hospital and never returned. The day she promised herself she would survive no matter how heavy the world grew.
The wind howled again, shaking the door on its rusty hinges. Ada pulled the candle closer. She realized it wasn’t fear keeping her awake but determination. This tiny flame was all she had, and she would not let it die out.
When morning finally came, the rain had stopped. The candle had burned to its last drop of wax, but Ada was still sitting upright, wide-eyed, holding the empty stand like a trophy.
Her grandmother was right. The candle wasn’t just light, but was proof she had endured the night.
