It was Diwali eve, and the streets of Varanasi shimmered like the Milky Way falling to Earth. In a small house by the river, Aarav watched his mother arrange clay diyas on the windowsill. “Aarav, place this diya by the door,” his mother said, handing him one diya. 
He took the diya carefully, its flame steady against the slight evening breeze. As he set it down by the door, his mind drifted. Aarav was twelve, on the cusp of understanding life’s responsibilities, yet his heart still beat with the wonder of a child.

The Diwali festival, he knew, was about good triumphing over evil, light dispelling darkness. But this year felt different. His father was away, working in a distant city, and Aarav had noticed the quiet sadness in his mother’s eyes, even as she smiled and prepared for the festival. He wished, more than anything, to see his family whole again.
As he stood by the door, Aarav’s eyes fell on an old, unused diya tucked away in the corner. It was small, but something about it seemed… different. Its surface was etched with strange, intricate patterns, unlike the other diyas. Curious, Aarav picked it up, and in that moment, a gust of wind blew past him, sending a shiver down his spine. The flame in the diya he was holding flickered wildly, then stabilized, burning brighter than before.

“Make a wish,” a voice whispered, so soft that Aarav thought he’d imagined it.
He looked around, but the street was empty. His heart raced. Magic? Here, in Varanasi? He had read stories of mystical happenings during Diwali, of ancient gods walking unseen among humans, but he had never believed them—until now.

“A wish,” Aarav whispered back to the flame. His mind filled with thoughts of his family, his father returning home, his mother’s laughter ringing through the house once again. Clutching the diya close to his chest, he whispered his wish into the flame, watching as it seemed to pulse with a life of its own.

The flame flickered one last time, and the diya grew cold in his hands. Has it worked? Aarav wasn’t sure, but a sense of calm washed over him.
Later that night, as the family gathered to offer their prayers to Lakshmi, the goddess of wealth and prosperity, the phone rang. His mother answered, her face lighting up with surprise.
“It’s your father,” she said, her voice trembling with joy. “He’s coming home—tonight!”

Aarav’s heart leapt. He ran to the door, looking out at the street lined with glowing diyas. Amidst the crackle of celebration, Aarav smiled, his eyes drifting to the old diya still burning bright by the door.
As his father’s silhouette appeared down the street, Aarav whispered a quiet thank you to the diya and joined his mother in lighting the rest of the lamps, their light bright enough to chase away all the shadows of the night.