Blog

The morning sun hid behind bruised clouds as Mira and her grandfather walked to the village square. At the market, a crowd had gathered. A traveler—skin weathered like old leather, eyes tired—stood before the baker’s stall, holding an empty satchel.

“No bread for outsiders,” the baker snapped, turning away. The traveler’s shoulders slumped, but the villagers stayed silent, eyes fixed on their feet.

Mira’s chest tightened. She tugged her grandfather’s sleeve. “Why does no one speak up?”

He knelt, his voice a low rumble. “Fear often wears a mask of silence. Come, let’s sit by the fig tree.”

Beneath the tree’s gnarled branches, Grandfather peeled a fig, its flesh pink and glistening. “Long ago, a storm drowned the valley in darkness. People hid in caves, whispering, ‘The sun has abandoned us!’ But the fireflies—tiny as eyelashes—gathered in the oldest oak. One by one, they lit their lanterns until the tree glowed like a fallen star. When the storm snarled, ‘You’ll fade!’ the eldest firefly replied, ‘But first, we’ll shine.’”

Mira frowned. “Didn’t the wind blow them out?”

“Some,” he admitted. “But others took their place. Courage isn’t about winning—it’s about refusing to let the dark rewrite your song.” He pressed a fig into her palm. “You felt it today, didn’t you? The weight of silence?”

She nodded, sticky sweetness on her tongue.

“That weight is fear,” he said. “But courage is the choice to bend toward light, even when your wings feel small.”

As afternoon shadows stretched, Mira returned to the square. The traveler now sat alone by the well, head bowed. The baker glared from his stall, arms crossed.

She remembered Grandfather’s words by the tree—that strength isn’t loud, but it holds us up. And maybe, just maybe, strength could give courage a place to stand.

Mira’s heart drummed like monsoon rain. She clutched the loaf of barley bread she’d saved from breakfast—its crust rough, its warmth long faded.

“Here,” she whispered, thrusting it toward the traveler.

The man blinked, then smiled—a crack of sunlight through clouds. “Thank you, little one.”

The baker snorted. “Waste of good bread.”

Mira turned, trembling. “Hunger has no homeland,” she said, louder than she’d ever spoken.

A woman in the crowd stirred. “She’s right,” she murmured, pulling an apple from her basket. One by one, others followed—a wedge of cheese, a handful of dates, a jar of honey—until the traveler’s satchel brimmed.

At dusk, Grandfather found Mira by the fig tree, tracing its roots with her toes. “You shone today,” he said.

“But my voice shook,” she replied.

“Of course it did,” he laughed. “Courage isn’t a roar—it’s a whisper that says, ‘I will try.’”

Above them, the first fireflies flickered awake, tiny lanterns defiant against the gathering dark.

As the fireflies danced, Mira wondered: “Grandfather, what if the storm never ends? How do we keep shining?”

He smiled. “That, little spark, is the work of Hope. But tonight, rest. Tomorrow’s story waits.”