The Storyteller of Hope

When the last ember fades,
when night forgets the names of stars,
and we bow our heads into our hands—

she comes.
Not loud.
Not grand.

A fluttering hush.
A breath of light.
A pulse so small it might be missed.

She drifts on quiet wings,
circles once,
and lays a story in our palm.

Not a promise—
a possibility.
Not a command—
a comfort.

And when we lift our gaze
to thank her,
she is gone.

But the wick we left for dead
flickers once more—
and something soft within us
remembers how to glow.

This is the Storyteller of Hope—
a bearer of flame,
a rekindler of resilience,

a winged reminder
that nothing light touches
is ever truly lost.