On the edge of a quiet harbor stood a little lighthouse. He was small and round and painted the colour of morning, and every evening, when the sun slipped behind the hills, he felt his heart grow shaky.
For the little lighthouse had a secret: he was afraid of the dark.
“When the night comes,” he whispered to the gulls, “everything turns black and cold, and I do not like it one bit.”
The gulls only tucked their heads beneath their wings and went to sleep.
So the little lighthouse tried to hide. He shut his big glass eye tight and pretended the night would pass him by. But out on the water, a small fishing boat began to lose its way. The waves grew tall. The wind grew loud. And the boat could not find the shore.
“Little lighthouse,” called the sea softly, “the boat needs you.”
The little lighthouse opened one eye, just a crack. A thin, warm beam slipped out across the water — and the boat turned toward it at once.
So he opened his eye a little wider. And wider. Until his light swept round and round, gold and steady, painting a safe path all the way home.
The fishing boat reached the harbor. The sailors waved. And the little lighthouse felt something wonderful: the dark was not so frightening when he was the one holding the light.
From that night on, whenever the sun went down, the little lighthouse smiled and lit his lamp — because now he knew the night was not something to fear. It was simply the time when his light mattered most.
Goodnight, little lighthouse. Goodnight, quiet harbor. Goodnight, you.