It was Diwali night, and the whole street outside glowed like a sky full of fallen stars.

Aarav stood on his rooftop, counting the diyas lined along the parapet. One by one, the little flames flickered out as the wind passed through.

“Oh no,” he whispered. “They’re all going out.”

Only one diya remained, small and stubborn, at the very end of the row.

“That one won’t last either,” Aarav sighed.

His grandfather, Bauji, came up beside him slowly, his walking stick tapping softly on the stone floor.

“Why so worried, beta?”

“All the diyas are going out, Bauji. Soon there won’t be any light left on our roof.”

Bauji looked at the one small flame still standing against the wind. “Watch that one,” he said. “Even a single diya can light up a whole rooftop, if it just keeps burning.”

Aarav watched it sway, dip, and then steady itself again.

Down below, a little girl from the next house looked up. “Look, Ma! One light is still on!” she called out happily.

Aarav smiled. The smallest flame had been noticed after all.

“It doesn’t need the others to shine,” said Bauji. “It only needs to keep burning.”

Aarav sat down beside the little diya and cupped his hands gently around it, shielding it from the wind.

The flame steadied, warm and golden, lighting up the corner of the rooftop long after every other light on the street had gone quiet.

“Goodnight, little diya,” Aarav whispered.

The flame flickered once, as if answering back, and burned on softly into the night.