The room felt warmer. Calmer.
I thought of my dad — his laughter, his rough hands tying up our little fabric ghosts with fishing line.
I didn’t say a word. I just sat there, the lamp resting on my lap — the same way I used to hold those tiny ghosts we made together.
And for the first time in years, I felt it again — that quiet stillness, that tender sweetness, that small, almost childlike joy of believing in something kind and gentle.
This little lamp doesn’t just light up a room. It lights up something else — something I thought I’d lost somewhere along the way.
Now, every night, I switch it on and let it glow softly beside me while I read or drift off to sleep. It’s just a lamp, I know — but to me, it’s a reminder that love doesn’t fade, even when the people we love are gone.
And this Halloween, I’ll be decorating with my children again. But this time, I don’t feel alone.
