The Night the Power Went Out
The rain had started before dinner, soft at first, then heavier, drumming steadily on the roof like an old heartbeat. By the time the dishes were cleared, the living room was wrapped in gray dusk. Then it happened—click—the lights went out. The TV, the humming fridge, the little glowing clock on the microwave—all of it silenced at once. For a moment, nobody moved. My granddaughter Sofia looked up from her tablet, her face half-lit by the fading screen. “Grandpa,” she whispered, “what do we do now?”
I smiled, struck a match, and let a candle come to life. Its small flame danced between us, casting golden light across her eyes. “We do what families used to do before electricity ruled the evening,” I said. “We tell stories.”
At first, Sofia wasn’t sure what to think. She’d never experienced a night without glowing screens. I handed her another candle to hold while I searched through the old board games. She asked, “Did you have nights like this when you were little