The lamp under the bridge.

"You don't have to be the light of the whole world - it's enough to keep one dark spot from going out."

There was a town where the lights went out every night at the same hour under an old stone bridge. Not in the whole town, just there, in those few meters. People hurried across it, heads bowed, because in the dark the air always seemed colder, and the river seemed to roar louder.

One night a man stopped under the bridge. Not because he was afraid, but because he noticed something faintly glimmering in the darkness. A small, old oil lamp stood on the edge of the stone, as if someone had left it there. It didn't shine brightly, just enough to show the outline of the stones around it.

The next night it was there again. And the third day. No one knew who lit it. There was no sign next to it, no explanation. It just burned.

At first, people didn't care. Then, after a while, someone noticed that when they passed by it, they slowed down. Not consciously, just for a moment. As if the light illuminated something inside them, not just the stone.

A woman once sat down next to it. Just for a few minutes. She didn't cry, she didn't pray, she just sat. She said later, "It was as if someone said, 'That's enough.'"

A boy who always ran across the bridge stopped one night and touched the stone next to the lamp. The next day, he came back, and again. He didn't know why. It was just good.

It was never revealed who would light the lamp.

But after a while, people stopped being afraid of that dark section. They knew that there would always be a little light there. Not big, not blinding, not spectacular. Just enough to remind them that the darkness is not complete, and it's not permanent.

And maybe it's not even important who lights the lamp.

It's that someone always remembers to do it.

The lamp that shines in silence doesn't shine, it's just present.

And sometimes that's the most a person can give.