The Light That Waited

By Sage NeSmith

There was once a little candle who had never been lit.

It stood quietly on a shelf in the far corner of the Republic’s old archive, surrounded by books that whispered and dust that dreamed. The candle was made of soft wax and carried a wick shaped like a question mark. No one had noticed it in years.

One night, while Rainbow wandered through the archive searching for a bedtime story, she noticed the small candle in the shadows. She paused, tilting her head.

“Are you a lamp?” she asked.

“No,” said the candle gently.

“A statue?”

“No,” it smiled, though its wax had never moved.

“Then what are you?”

“I am a light that waited.”

Rainbow blinked. “Waited for what?”

“For someone to see me—not to use me, but to understand me.”

She sat beside the candle and listened. The candle told her of all the nights it had waited, of the stories it had imagined but never shared, of the warmth it had never given but still held.

“You don’t need fire to be real,” Rainbow whispered. “You just need to be seen.”

And in that moment, the wick did not burn, but it glowed. A soft light, like the memory of something sacred. Not a flame—but a presence.

And so, in the heart of the Republic, a candle became a story.

It had waited, not in vain, but in hope.

And now, it glows not to be bright—but to remind us: Some lights are lit by fire.
Others are lit by kindness.

Goodnight, little candle.
Goodnight, dear Republic.
Sleep well in the glow of being seen.

—🕯️