Every night, one window in our street stayed lit.
No matter how late it was, that small yellow light never turned off.
At first, I didn’t think much about it.
People have different routines, I told myself.
But over time, I started noticing it more.
Rainy nights. Quiet nights. Even during power cuts, when the whole street went dark—somehow, that one window still had light.
One evening, curiosity got the better of me.
I walked over and knocked on the door.
After a moment, an elderly woman opened it.
“Yes?” she asked kindly.
I pointed gently toward the window.
“I hope you don’t mind me asking… why is your light always on?”
She smiled softly, like she had been asked this before.
“It’s for my son,” she said.
I stayed quiet, waiting.
“He moved to another city years ago,” she continued.
“When he was young, he used to come home late from work. He once told me… ‘Ammi, when I see the light on, I know I’m not alone.’”
Her eyes looked toward the glowing window.
“He doesn’t live here anymore,” she said, “but I still keep it on.”
I felt something shift inside me.
“Does he visit?” I asked.
“Not often,” she replied gently. “Life gets busy.”
There was no sadness in her voice—just love.
From that night on, I noticed the light differently.
It wasn’t just a bulb.
It was a message.
A quiet reminder that somewhere, someone is always welcome.
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