The Guardian of the Inner Fire.

(LeCsó Thought Notebook – new story)

Once upon a time there was a man who lit the morning light with the same movement every day.

It was not a flame, nor a candle — just a small, warm spark in his chest that he had kept since childhood.

This fire did not illuminate much.

It did not heat houses, did not melt iron,

but whoever had it knew for sure:

this fire is the warmth of the soul.

The man carefully guarded this little light for many years.

Sometimes it barely flickered, sometimes it flared up completely,

and there were times when he thought:

— Maybe it had gone out.

But the fire never really went out.

It just hid.

One day the man was very tired.

Cold permeated everything, his hands, his feet, his thoughts.

It was as if someone had carefully blocked out the warmth of the world with cautious fingers.

He sat down—he didn't know if he was gathering strength or about to give up.

Then something strange happened.

As he sat there in silence, it was as if someone had settled down next to him.

He didn't speak, he didn't wave, he didn't ask.

He was just there.

The man noticed that although the world remained cold outside, something moved loosely inside.

A weak vibration, barely perceptible.

Like a bird gently adjusting its feathers in its nest.

The man closed his eyes,

and in the silence he heard the soft crackling of his own inner fire—as if it were saying:

"I'm not falling asleep.

I'm here.

You just needed to remind me that I exist."

The man understood then that the fire of the soul is not great because it sheds light on others.

It is not valuable because it burns.

But because he perseveres, even when the body is tired, even when thoughts become heavy, even when everything seems cold.

The inner fire is not ignited in battle, but in silence.

And it lives on in silence.

The man slowly stood up.

He felt that he was still weak, but the weakness no longer frightened him.

Because he knew:

The fire is inside.

He didn't have to wait outside — he just had to let it warm him up again.

And as he set off on the road, the fire grew a little stronger with each step.

Not out of haste, not out of desire — just because there was someone guarding it.

Because there is a flame in every person, and sometimes all it takes is a single moment,

a quiet presence, a soothing thought, to rekindle it.

And the fire became warm again.

Not blazing, not blazing — just quietly, quietly living.

As the most important lights always live.