The Lantern in Their Hearts

In a quiet village nestled between green hills and rivers, lived an old couple, Amaan and Zulekha. They had three children, all grown and living in distant cities, caught up in their busy lives. But Amaan and Zulekha, now frail and slow, waited every evening on the porch—Zulekha knitting, Amaan watching the road—as if any moment, their children would come walking back home.

They never complained. Their love was like the lantern that hung at their door—flickering gently, never asking for more oil, just giving light to whoever passed by.

One winter, Zulekha fell ill. The doctor said her heart was weak, and the cold could be harsh. Still, she smiled through her pain, her eyes full of stories and silent prayers. Amaan wrapped her in his old shawl, the one he wore on their wedding night. "You gave me warmth all my life," he whispered, "now let me give it back."

Word of Zulekha’s illness reached their children. All three arrived, one after the other, surprised by the weight of silence in the house and the strength in their father’s eyes.

As they sat by their mother’s bed, she held their hands and said, "You may grow up and live far, but a parent’s love stays close—like breath, like shadow, like the smell of home."

She passed away peacefully that night, her head resting on Amaan’s shoulder, her smile untouched.

The children stayed for weeks afterward, helping their father, learning how to make her tea, fold her sari, and walk where she once walked. They lit the lantern every evening, just as their parents had, realizing it wasn’t just a light—it was love, memory, and sacrifice burning quietly.

Years later, Amaan joined Zulekha, and the house became still again. But the lantern never went out. The children took turns visiting, keeping it burning, passing on the same love to their own families.

Because real love—especially a parent’s—is not loud. It’s steady. Unshaken. Eternal.