The Light That Doesn't Ask.

There was a small house on the outskirts of town, where the lights were always turned off quickly in the evening.

Not because they had to save money.

But because the man who lived there loved the dark.

You didn't have to be strong in the dark.

You didn't have to answer.

You didn't have to explain why you were tired.

Every day he took a walk along the same path.

He went to the park, stopped at the bench, and sat down for a few minutes.

He never took a phone with him.

Just his thoughts.

And even those rarely.

One evening, when it was already cold and the leaves were wet and sticky on the soles of his shoes, he noticed a candle burning on the bench.

Not big.

Nothing special.

Just a simple tealight.

No one was near it.

There was no note on it.

He didn't know who had lit it.

He sat down.

He didn't touch it.

He just watched.

And then something very small but important happened: he realized that he didn't need to know why it was burning.

It was enough that it was burning.

On the way home, he didn't feel any better.

But he didn't feel any worse.

And that was enough at the time.

The next day, the candle was there again in the same place.

And the next night, too.

As if someone had lit it every day—not for him, not for anyone, just like that.

A week later, he brought the match.

Not with any great intention.

Not on a mission.

Just because he remembered the feeling he had when he first saw it.

He didn't wait for anyone to see it.

He didn't think it mattered.

He just lit it.

That night, when he went home, he turned on the light.

Not completely.

Just a little.

And maybe that's the point: not all light is born to shine.

Some come just so it won't be completely dark.

If you are reading this now and it is quiet around you, know that somewhere a little light is already burning.

You may not see it.

It may not have been lit for you.

But it is still burning for you.