Speaker 1: Blow kilcum. Take a moment to settle in, adjust your pillow,
Speaker 1: let your shoulders drop. The day is behind you now,
Speaker 1: and nothing else is required. Tonight. We have a story
Speaker 1: about a lantern, A lantern that burns in a window,
Speaker 1: waiting for someone who may or may not be coming home.
Speaker 1: You are walking through a village at dusk. The streets
Speaker 1: are quiet. The houses are old, with stone walls and
Speaker 1: wooden doors and windows that glow with the soft light
Speaker 1: of evening. Smoke rises from chimney, thin and blue, carrying
Speaker 1: the scent of wood fires and cooking. A cat sits
Speaker 1: on a doorstep, watching you with calm, golden eyes. A
Speaker 1: dog barks once in the distance, then falls silent. You
Speaker 1: do not live here. You are passing through, following a
Speaker 1: road that winds through hills and valleys and small villages
Speaker 1: like this one. You have been walking since morning, and
Speaker 1: your legs are tired, and your mind is beginning to drift.
Speaker 1: You look up in the window of a house at
Speaker 1: the end of the street. There is a lantern. It
Speaker 1: hangs from a hook above the window, its glass panes,
Speaker 1: catching the last light of the sky. Inside, a candle burns.
Speaker 1: The flame is small and steady, a point of warm
Speaker 1: light in the gathering dark. The glass is clear, not colored,
Speaker 1: and the light it casts is the color of butter,
Speaker 1: of honey, of the first light of morning. You stop walking.
Speaker 1: You stand in the middle of the street and look
Speaker 1: at the lantern. It does not flicker, it does not waver.
Speaker 1: It simply burns, steady and sure, as if it has
Speaker 1: been burning for a long time, and will continue to
Speaker 1: burn long after you have passed. Something about it makes
Speaker 1: you feel safe. You walk toward the house. The door
Speaker 1: is made of wood, dark and heavy, with a brass handle,
Speaker 1: worn smooth by years of hands. There is a step
Speaker 1: in front of the door, a single stone step, and
Speaker 1: on the step a mat that says welcome. The mat
Speaker 1: is old and faded, but the word is still clear.
Speaker 1: You do not knock. You are not sure why, but
Speaker 1: you feel that knocking would be wrong. The lantern is
Speaker 1: not an invitation. It is a statement. It says some
Speaker 1: one is here, some one is keeping the light. Someone
Speaker 1: is watching over this house, and the street, and the
Speaker 1: village and all the quiet, sleeping things. You sit on
Speaker 1: the step. The stone is cool under you. The air
Speaker 1: smells of smoke and grass, and the faint sweetness of
Speaker 1: night flowers. The sky above is deep blue, almost black,
Speaker 1: and the first stars are appearing small and bright, like
Speaker 1: the lantern flame, like the candles and the windows of
Speaker 1: the other houses, like the scattered light of a world
Speaker 1: that is going to sleep. From inside the house, you
Speaker 1: hear a sound, a kettle whistling. The sound is soft,
Speaker 1: muffled by the walls, but you can hear it. It
Speaker 1: rises and falls, the way a kettle does when the
Speaker 1: water is just reaching its boil. Then it stops. There
Speaker 1: is the sound of a cup being set on a table,
Speaker 1: the clink of ceramic on wood. Then silence. Someone is
Speaker 1: in there, Someone is making tea. Someone is going about
Speaker 1: the quiet business of evening, of settling, of preparing for sleep.
Speaker 1: You sit on the step and listen. The village is quiet,
Speaker 1: The lantern burns, the stars multiply. You think about the
Speaker 1: person inside the house. You do not know them, You
Speaker 1: do not know their name, or their age, or what
Speaker 1: they look like. But you know that they light the
Speaker 1: lantern every evening. You know that they make tea. You
Speaker 1: know that they sit in the warm light of their
Speaker 1: kitchen and watch the world go dark, and they are
Speaker 1: not afraid. Some people are like that. They carry their
Speaker 1: peace with them, like a lantern, like a flame that
Speaker 1: does not go out. They do not need the world
Speaker 1: to be quiet in order to be quiet. They do
Speaker 1: not need the world to be kind in order to
Speaker 1: be kind. They simply are the way. The lantern is
Speaker 1: the way, the candle is the way. The stars are.
Speaker 1: You lean back against the door. The wood is solid
Speaker 1: and warm. The lantern above you casts its light down,
Speaker 1: and you sit in it, a small figure in a
Speaker 1: small village, under a sky full of stars. You close
Speaker 1: your eyes. The light is on your face. The stone
Speaker 1: is cool beneath you. The air is still. You can
Speaker 1: hear the faint sound of the wind in the trees,
Speaker 1: at the constant hum of the world turning in its sleep.
Speaker 1: You breathe in, you breathe out. The lantern does not
Speaker 1: care who sees it. It does not burn for applause or recognition.
Speaker 1: It burns because it is a lantern, and that is
Speaker 1: what lanterns do. It burns for the traveler on the road,
Speaker 1: for the cat on the doorstep, for the stars above,
Speaker 1: for anyone who needs a light to walk toward. You
Speaker 1: are the traveler. The lantern is for you. You feel
Speaker 1: the tiredness in your legs soften, not disappear, but ease,
Speaker 1: the way a sore muscle eases under warm water. You
Speaker 1: feel the thoughts in your mind slow, not stop, but settle,
Speaker 1: like leaves falling gently to the ground. The village is asleep,
Speaker 1: the lantern is burning, the stars are bright. You do
Speaker 1: not need to move. You do not need to find
Speaker 1: a bed or a roof or a place to lay
Speaker 1: your head. This step, this light, this night is enough.
Speaker 1: The door behind you is solid, The lantern above you
Speaker 1: is warm, The sky above that is deep and endless
Speaker 1: and full of quiet light. You sleep. You sleep on
Speaker 1: the step of a house in a village you will
Speaker 1: not remember in the morning. You sleep under a lantern
Speaker 1: that burns for you and for everyone, and for no
Speaker 1: one at all. You sleep with the stars above and
Speaker 1: the stone beneath, and the quiet all around you like
Speaker 1: a gentle embrace. And when you wake, the lantern will
Speaker 1: still be burning, the village will still be quiet. The
Speaker 1: road will still be there, winding through the hills, leading
Speaker 1: you forward. But for now there is no road, There
Speaker 1: is no forward. There is only this, the light, the stone,
Speaker 1: the night, and you held gently in the middle of it.
Speaker 1: All safe and still and deeply, deeply rested. Sleep. Now
Speaker 1: the lantern is burning, the village is asleep, and you
Speaker 1: are home.