The lamp that never went out.

On the outskirts of a town where the snowy rooftops lined up like they were drawn from an old storybook, there lived an old watchmaker.

Christmas was approaching, but he hadn't really celebrated it in years.

Ever since his wife died, Christmas had been just a date for him — not light, not joy, just a day on the calendar.

In front of his watchmaker's workshop stood an old oil lamp that his wife had once lit every night.

In town it was called "the lamp that never went out," because even though Uncle Nicholas no longer cared for it, the flame somehow always burned.

No one knew how — but it flickered there, even in the cold.

One snowy evening, a few days before Christmas, a little girl entered the workshop.

She was holding a broken snow angel ornament in her arms, her face with snowflakes mixed with tears.

— Uncle… my mother made this before she left. Can… can this be repaired? — he asked quietly.

The old watchmaker's heart sank.

He saw the same pain in the little girl's eyes that he had been carrying for years.

He carefully examined the ornament. It was fragile, with fine gold threads running through it, as if the memory itself was holding it together.

— I'll try, my little girl — he said.

The light from the lamp trembled in the workshop window as Uncle Miklós worked all evening.

Slowly, patiently, as if he were gluing his own past with every movement.

When it was finished by dawn, the snow angel's wings shone again.

Not perfectly — but beautifully.

The way memories usually do: a little fragmented, but with soul.

The next day the little girl hugged the ornament happily.

— Thank you… mom would surely be happy about it.

Uncle Órás only replied:

— And you shine too, little girl. That's what made everything in him live on.

The little girl left, and a moment of silence remained behind.

But then something happened that even Uncle Miklós himself didn't really understand: the light of the lantern, which had only flickered until then, now flared up, a strong, clear light ignited in it — just like the one his wife had once lit.

The townspeople referred to it as a miracle.

And that evening, Uncle Watchmaker took out an empty box for the first time and put ornaments, candy, and old Christmas cards in it.

His heart was moved.

He wasn't completely healed, but he began to remember.

On Christmas Eve, as he opened the door to the workshop, he saw: the light of the lantern was lighting up not only the street — but also his heart.

And he understood:

It's not the one who does great things who lights the world, but the one who dares to love again — even when it's already hurt once.

That night, he finally knew: Christmas is not a holiday because we are together, but because we do not forget to love.