Maya was a little dog with a light step and attentive eyes, always ready to discover something new. In her house there was a place that intrigued her more than any other: the attic. A room full of quiet corners, mysterious boxes, and objects that seemed to have been asleep for a very, very long time. She sometimes went up there with her human, walking among old photographs, blankets that smelled of memories, and floorboards that creaked softly under their paws and feet.
One autumn afternoon, while the wind made the branches dance against the windows, Maya noticed something she had never seen before: a small metal lantern resting on a shelf, covered in dust as fine as flour. It didn’t shine, it didn’t jingle, it didn’t do anything special. And yet she felt a tiny pull, almost like a whispered “pssst.”
She approached, pressed her nose gently against the glass… and click. A tiny warm light flickered to life inside, glowing like a soft embrace.
That night, the lantern insisted on staying with her. Her human placed it beside her bed, thinking it was just an old object she had found by chance. But as soon as the room grew dark, the lantern began to glow brighter, and from its center came a delicate golden trail of light. Maya closed her eyes and suddenly found herself in a meadow made of softness, where each blade of grass sounded like a musical note. Then in a forest of giant leaves that shaded the sky. Then in a city made of clouds, where dreams walked quietly so as not to wake one another.
The lantern didn’t speak, but it seemed to know exactly which dreams to awaken. It gifted her adventures when she needed courage, silence when she needed calm, and laughter when her heart felt a little heavy. Every night a different light, every night a brand-new world.
And so Maya understood something simple and beautiful: some lights aren’t meant to brighten a room—they’re meant to brighten what we carry inside.