The Lamp That Wouldn't Go Out.

Once upon a time there was an old woman in a small street. She had no one—or so they thought.

Every night, when it got dark, she lit a lamp in her window.

Not for herself—but for "someone out there." No one knew who the light was for.

People just shrugged, "It's an old habit," they said, and moved on.

One night, a storm came, the wind tore down the power lines, and the street was dark.

But there was still light in the woman's house. Outside, children were screaming and dogs were barking,

and the old woman opened the door and put the lamp out of the window into the street.

The wind tore at her clothes, but she just stood there until the children saw the light.

And they went there. They all sat there, wrapped in a blanket, around a candle, on the floor.

They didn't speak. They just listened to the storm raging outside, and inside, around the little light, it became warm.

Not big, not spectacular — but enough. By morning the wind had died down. The children went home, the woman turned off the light. And since then, every evening, when it started to get dark, it wasn't just her window that was lit.

More and more houses were lit. Not because there was a storm, but because someone showed

that love isn't always big — just persistent.

Sometimes love is just someone lighting a light and not asking who will need it.