In a valley cradled by whispering hills, there lived a Lantern Keeper who tended a tower of light. Every evening, he climbed the spiral stairs, his steps slow but sure, to ignite a flame that pierced the night. The valley folk relied on this glow; it guided travelers home, comforted the lost, and warmed hearts grown cold.
The Keeper had no name, for he said, “My light is my name.” His lantern burned not with oil but with a spark from a source unseen, deep within the tower’s heart. Some villagers mocked him, saying, “Why toil each night? The stars are enough!” Others ignored the light, chasing shadows that promised joy but left them empty. Yet a few—children with wide eyes, elders with weathered hands—drew near, asking, “How does your flame never fade?”
The Keeper smiled. “It burns because I give it my care. But it’s not mine—it belongs to the One who kindled it. If you carry a spark from this flame, it will light your path too.” One night, a storm swept through, snuffing out every fire in the valley—except the Keeper’s lantern. Those who’d taken a spark found their way, while others stumbled in the dark.
A child, clutching her own tiny lantern, asked, “Keeper, what if I’m too weak to carry it?” He knelt, his eyes like embers. “The spark carries you, little one. Trust it, and walk.”
Years passed, and the Keeper was gone, yet the tower’s light never dimmed. The valley folk who’d taken sparks became keepers themselves, lighting paths for others. And in their hearts, they knew: the flame was a gift, freely given, forever bright.