A proud lantern refuses to share its fire with a tiny candle—until a power cut makes darkness the only judge.
**Hook:** The town square adored the iron lantern—big, polished, and noisy with pride. A tiny beeswax candle, shy and warm, asked for a spark to light a sick child’s room. “Earn your flame,” the lantern clanged. “Mine is for festivals.”
**Rise:** That night, the power failed. Winds bullied shutters; the square went blind. People fumbled, calling for the lantern. It sputtered—its oil jar was empty, its wick stiff with vanity. The little candle appeared, trembling. “Share your ember,” it whispered. The lantern scoffed, then saw the crowd stumble. Even pride hates watching friends bruise. It leaned into the candle, let a shy kiss of ember pass. The candle sprang alive and ran—room to room—igniting kitchen lamps, hallway stubs, a forgotten diya by a portrait. Light multiplied without counting.
The lantern watched flames bloom across windows like stars moving closer. Heat returned to soup, to fingers, to the shape of faces. The candle returned at dawn, half its height gone, wholly unafraid. “I brought your light home,” it said, tipping a final flame back to the lantern’s wick.
**Finish:** When the power came back, the town hung a plaque beneath the lantern: “Light enlarges by sharing.” From then on, the lantern bowed at sunset, and the candle stood taller every time it shrank. **Moral:** Real power is generous; fire grows by giving away fire.
