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Id:- Shubh23 The Light in Number 27 Every December, the house at number 27 stayed dark. On Willow Lane, this was unusual. The street competed fiercely in what the neighbors jokingly called The Great Christmas War: lights wrapped around trees, glowing reindeer staked into lawns, wreaths thick enough to look edible. But number 27 sat quietly among them, its windows black, its porch bare. “Maybe they don’t celebrate,” people said. But Nora believed houses remembered things. She was nine years old and lived across the street at number 14. From her bedroom window, she could see number 27 perfectly. Her grandmother had once lived there, long before Nora was born, and though Grandma never spoke about it much, she always paused when they drove past. “Some lights go out,” Grandma once said, “and wait to be invited back on.” That December, Grandma was gone. The house felt too quiet without her humming carols or burning cinnamon sticks on the stove. Nora missed the way Grandma made Christmas feel like a secret worth keeping. So on December 20th, Nora decided to do something about number 27. She bundled herself into her coat, grabbed the small paper lantern Grandma had made with her years ago, and crossed the street. The lantern glowed softly, painted with uneven stars. Nora knocked. Nothing happened. She knocked again, softer this time, as if the house might be sleeping. The door opened with a gentle creak. An old man stood there, thin as a winter branch, wearing a sweater that had once been red. His eyes widened slightly when he saw the lantern. “I’m sorry,” Nora said quickly. “I didn’t mean to bother you. I just thought—well, your house looked lonely.” The man smiled, slow and surprised. “It has been,” he said. “For a long time.” Nora held up the lantern. “This was my grandma’s. She said lights like being shared.” The man studied it, then stepped aside. “Would you like to come in?” Inside, number 27 smelled like dust and pine needles. The furniture was old but careful, as if it still remembered being loved. In the corner stood a small Christmas tree—real, but undecorated. “I used to put lights up every year,” the man said. “After my wife passed, I couldn’t remember how.” Nora didn’t say anything. She simply set the lantern on the table. Its glow spread gently, touching the walls, the windows, the tree. Something shifted. The man’s shoulders relaxed. He let out a quiet laugh. “Would you help me remember?” So they did. They found a box in the attic with tangled lights that flickered but still worked. They hung paper stars from old sheet music. Nora sang a carol Grandma used to hum, and the man joined in halfway through, his voice rough but sure. By the time Nora went home, number 27 glowed brighter than any house on Willow Lane. And it stayed that way. On Christmas Eve, neighbors stopped to stare. On Christmas morning, they brought cookies. On Christmas night, the man placed the lantern in the window, where it shone softly into the snow. Nora watched from across the street, warm and smiling. Some lights don’t go out forever. Sometimes, they’re just waiting for someone to knock.

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30 January 2023 I'd:- Shubh23

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