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In a small village tucked between hills and rivers, there lived a boy named Yasin, known for his curiosity and questions that often stretched beyond his years. One evening, he sat beside his mother under the almond tree in their courtyard. The breeze carried the scent of wild herbs, and the sky glowed with the last blush of dusk.

“Mother,” Yasin asked, “how do we know what is right when no one is watching?”

His mother smiled gently, brushing a leaf from his shoulder. “Because,” she said, “the One who made the stars also placed a lantern inside you. It’s called conscience. And it never sleeps.”

Yasin frowned thoughtfully. “Like a voice?”

“Yes,” she nodded, “but quieter than words. It doesn’t shout. It doesn’t argue. But when you’re about to do something wrong, it tugs at you—like a thread in your chest being pulled.”

She picked up a smooth stone from the ground and held it in her palm.

“Goodness,” she continued, “feels like calm water. It gives you peace. But when you do something wrong—lie, hurt someone, take what isn’t yours—it’s like throwing a stone into that water. Your heart ripples. You can’t sleep the same way. That’s your conscience whispering, ‘This isn’t who you are.’”

Yasin sat in silence. “But what if we ignore it?”

“Ah,” his mother said, her eyes deepening with concern. “Then the lantern grows dim. The more you ignore it, the harder it is to hear. And one day, if you aren’t careful, you’ll forget the sound of your own soul.”

She placed the stone into his small hand.

“But if you guard it—this lantern inside you—it becomes your truest guide. Even when no one is around. Even when the world says wrong is right. It will shine, and you will know.”

Yasin looked down at the stone in his palm, then at his mother. “What should I do to protect it?”

“Live in a way,” she said softly, “that your own heart does not feel ashamed of you. Don’t do what makes you feel smaller inside. Don’t trade peace for applause. Walk away from what steals your light—even if no one else sees it.”

The stars had begun to appear now, scattered like quiet witnesses across the sky.

Yasin clutched the stone and whispered, “Then I will listen. Even if it’s just a whisper.”

His mother nodded, her eyes glistening. “And when you do, my son, you will never be truly lost.”

That night, as the world around him drifted into sleep, Yasin lay awake—not with fear, but with something deeper.

He had met a guardian inside him.

Not loud.

Not harsh.

But quietly loyal.

And from that day forward, whenever he was unsure which path to take, he would place a hand on his chest and ask:

“Does this make my light brighter…

or dimmer?”