A Flicker of Hope
A Heart-Touching Romantic Story in English
The bombs had stopped falling for now, but the silence was almost louder.
Dust hung in the air like a ghost refusing to leave, and the streets of what was once a lively town were now skeletons of the past — buildings broken, hopes buried. But in the small brick house at the end of Rua Viento, a single light flickered in the window.
It was a candle.
And beside it sat a girl named Liora.
Barely 22, but with eyes far older, she sat stitching a torn jacket by hand, her fingers trembling. Not from fear — she had learned to live with that — but from exhaustion. Her little brother, Sami, just 7, slept in the corner under a pile of clothes that once belonged to their parents. Now both gone, taken by the war that didn’t ask for permission.
Liora had promised them she’d protect Sami. And even as bombs fell, and neighbors disappeared, she clung to that promise like breath.
Every night, she’d light the candle in the window.
“It’s for hope,” her mother used to say. “Even when the world is dark, someone might see the light.”
She kept it burning, even when there was no one left to see.
But one night, someone did.
It was past midnight when a knock came at the door.
Liora’s body jolted, heart racing. She grabbed the rusted knife under the floorboard and tiptoed toward the sound.
Another knock. Softer.
“Please,” a voice said. Male. Weak. “I… I saw the light.”
She opened the door just slightly.
A young man stood there, his clothes stained with ash, a cut on his brow, and eyes that looked like they hadn’t slept in days.
“My name is Elias,” he whispered. “I was injured… I’m not armed.”
Liora hesitated. Kindness had become dangerous. But she saw it — in his eyes — something she hadn’t seen in a while.
Fear. But not the kind that hurts. The kind that pleads.
She opened the door.
Elias collapsed by the fireplace. Liora pulled out old towels and cleaned his wound. She said nothing. She didn’t ask who he was, or what side he fought on. War didn’t care for sides anymore.
He slept for sixteen hours.
When he woke, Sami was sitting beside him, wide-eyed.
“Are you a soldier?” Sami asked.
Elias smiled weakly. “I used to be. Now I’m just… a traveler.”
Liora entered with a bowl of broth. “Eat. Then leave.”
He nodded. “Thank you.”
She watched him eat, her arms crossed. Her body was guarded. But her heart — it betrayed her. It softened.
Over the next two days, Elias didn’t leave.
He helped fix the broken fence. He collected firewood. He repaired the leaky roof with tin scraps.
Sami adored him.
Liora remained distant, yet she noticed how he handled things with care. How he whittled small wooden toys for Sami. How he never stepped into their rooms without knocking. How, at night, he stared at the sky, whispering names to the stars.
On the fifth day, Liora finally spoke.
“You lost someone?”
Elias nodded. “My sister. She was younger than me. We were supposed to escape together. She never made it past the checkpoint.”
“I lost my mother in a shelter. My father in the market. All within a week,” she replied.
Silence again.
But this time, it wasn’t painful.
It was shared.
Winter came quickly.
Snow fell like ash, and food grew scarce. But Elias stayed.
He taught Sami to read using burned pages from abandoned books. He sang softly at night, unfamiliar songs that still made Liora cry. He made Liora laugh once, too — a sudden, awkward sound that startled all three of them.
She scolded herself afterward.
This was war. You weren’t supposed to love in war.
But love had never asked for permission either.
One night, as the wind howled outside and the candle flickered dangerously low, Elias said, “I have to leave soon.”
Liora’s heart stopped.
“Where will you go?” Sami asked, his eyes already filling with tears.
“There’s a convoy. Heading to the border. They say there’s peace across it.”
Liora’s voice cracked. “So go.”
But the words were hollow.
She wanted him to stay.
Desperately.
Elias looked at her, carefully. “Come with me. Both of you.”
She froze.
“I can’t,” she said. “This house… this is all we have left of them. Of who we were.”
Elias reached for her hand. “But it’s not who you have to be.”
The next morning, he was gone.
No goodbye. Just a folded note by the candle:
“If you ever find the strength to leave, I’ll wait for you by the blue tree on the border hill. Every full moon. For six months. After that… I’ll stop hoping.”
Liora stared at the note for hours.
Sami cried.
And the candle went out for the first time in months.
The days became colder.
Liora moved like a ghost. She still fed Sami. Still cleaned. Still read stories at night. But her heart — it had gone with Elias.
Every full moon, she lit the candle again, but never walked toward the border.
What if it was a trap?
What if he had lied?
What if it was love?
And she had let it go?
On the sixth full moon, something changed.
Sami, now stronger, now older in spirit, stood at her side.
“Liora,” he said, “maybe Mom’s candle wasn’t for someone to find us. Maybe it was to remind us we’re worth finding.”
She looked at her brother.
Then at the empty road.
Then at the sky.
They left at dawn.
Liora packed only what mattered — her mother’s shawl, her father’s journal, the wooden toy Elias had made.
The walk to the border hill was long. Dangerous. They avoided patrols. Slept in ditches. Ate whatever they could forage.
But they kept going.
Because now, Liora had something more powerful than fear.
She had hope.
And on the sixth full moon, just as promised, there was a blue tree.
And beside it—
Elias.
He was thinner, beard grown, eyes tired.
But when he saw her—
He smiled.
And when she ran into his arms—
He wept.
Sami hugged his legs. “You waited!”
Elias knelt, holding them both.
“I never stopped hoping.”
And Liora, tears streaming down her cheeks, whispered, “I never stopped loving.”
They crossed the border together that night.
Not into paradise. Not into certainty.
But into possibility.
And that—
Was enough.
Because love, like a candle in war, doesn’t promise forever.
It just promises to flicker.
Until someone sees it.
The End
