“I’ll promise, you will be safe around me. But will I be safe when I am alone?”
Some people are born with a light that draws others in. They carry it without question, offering it freely to cold hands, tired souls, and hearts that have forgotten how to feel warm. They tend to the flames of others as though it were their calling, never asking for payment, never keeping count.
But light, no matter how generous, burns fuel. And there are nights when the keeper of candles notices the quiet dim in their own glow. The air feels heavier. The silence lingers longer. Shadows curl at the edges of the room, whispering questions they cannot quite answer.
It is not resentment that blooms in the chest; no, resentment would be easier. This is something softer, and yet sharper. A quiet longing. A tender ache that wonders if anyone has ever looked at their light, not as a convenience, but as something precious. If anyone has ever thought to protect it when the wind grows cruel.
To be the keeper of candles is to know the beauty of giving warmth, and the quiet tragedy of watching your own flame tremble in the dark. It is to stand in an empty room and realise that you have been shelter for many, yet you cannot remember the last time someone built a shelter for you.
Perhaps the truth is this: even the steadfast need a place to rest. Even the strong long for a gentle hand to cup their light. And perhaps, one day, someone will arrive; not to borrow the flame, but to sit beside it, guarding it through the night, until the morning comes.
To the keepers of candles — may you be found before your wick runs low. Because even the brightest light dies quietly, if no one notices it fading.
Anggerik
