The light of the fourth candle.

"The light burns for you even when no one is sitting next to you."

On the last Sunday of Advent, the city is quieter than usual.

Lights burn in the windows, but there are rooms where only one lamp is lit.

And there are hearts where no one knocks today.

An old woman lights the fourth candle at the same time every year.

She doesn't expect guests.

She doesn't set the table.

She just sits and watches the flame.

She used to think that the candle burns because of the holiday.

Now she knows: the candle burns because of her.

Because the light is not for those who have a lot, but for those who are still left.

The flame doesn't ask, doesn't interrogate, doesn't regret.

It just says quietly:

"You are here. And that's enough."

In another apartment, a man puts down his phone at the same moment.

He has been waiting all day for a message.

He didn't come.

But before he bows his head, he thinks: maybe he could be the message today.

He writes a sentence on a piece of paper and drops it in the neighbor's mailbox:

"If today is hard, it's okay. You're not alone."

He doesn't know who will read it.

But the light doesn't ask for proof.

Just a gesture.

On the last Sunday of Advent, it's not the perfect holiday that counts.

But it's that someone thinks of someone.

That a candle burns for someone.

That a sentence walks through the walls.

And maybe today you feel the same: that there is silence around you, but not emptiness.

Because where light is born, there is already hope.

And where there is hope, loneliness doesn't stay alone either.

If you're alone today, know this:

Somewhere, a candle is still burning — for you.