That night, the electricity went out.
A storm brewed in the distance, low thunder rolling across the hills like a slow drum. The lights flickered once, then died, leaving our house wrapped in a velvet kind of darkness.
We lit candles. Found the old lantern. Built a small fire in the hearth.
With every shadow cast on the wall, stories came alive. We sat on the living room floor with a blanket between us and the sky outside roaring its lullaby. You held a candle near your sketchbook, capturing the moment in graphite and glow.
It was strange how the dark made everything feel more intimate. The flicker of light in your eyes. The hush in your voice. The warmth of your hand in mine.
We shared childhood fears, silly memories, dreams we hadn't told anyone. And somewhere between laughter and quiet tears, the storm faded.
You handed me your sketch. It was us again sitting in the candlelight, surrounded by a night that could've felt lonely but didn't. Because we had each other.
"Even in the dark," you said softly, "we always find a way to see."
And I believed you. Because in your presence, there was always light.