The last night
Every house on Maple Street glittered at Christmas except Mr. Hale’s. His stood dark at the end of the road, forgotten. One evening, I noticed a single light flicker inside his window. Curious, I brought him cookies the next day.
Inside, his home was quiet. A photo of a smiling boy rested on the mantel. “My son,” he said. “After he died, I stopped celebrating.”
I wrapped a tiny string of lights around the frame. He smiled, softly.
That night, his house glowed again.
Sometimes, Christmas begins with one small light.
STAKE- Rith6969
