The Light of the Candle.

(Where the Soul Finds Home)

There are evenings when silence is not emptiness, but a call.

A person steps out into the night, holding a small flame in his hand, and feels that this light does not burn in the wax, but within him.

A candle is not only a memory — but also a gate.

When it lights up, two worlds come together for a moment: the breath of the living and the sigh of the departed vibrate in the same light.

Ancient peoples knew this. The Aztecs, the Mayans, the Celts all awaited the dead as a holiday.

They were not afraid of them, because they knew that the soul does not perish — it only returns home.

The light of a candle does not mourn, but guides the way: it shows the direction to those who come and to those who stay.

At such times, a person does not see the cemetery, but a sea of ​​lights.

And somewhere in that vibration, in the silence between the flames, is everything we have ever loved.

Not far away, but within us — because love knows no time.

When the candle goes out, the flame does not disappear — it only returns to the Source.

Like every soul that has once shone.

The warmth remains in our hands, the light in our hearts.

And that is enough to know: you don't have to speak loudly to be heard.

You don't have to see to be present.

Because every light we have ever lit burns on, somewhere, in someone.