Maya lived in a lighthouse with her father.
Every night, her father climbed the winding stairs to light the great lamp. The light spun round and round, warning ships of the rocky shore.
"Can I help?" Maya always asked.
"When you're older," Papa always said.
One stormy night, Papa fell sick. He could barely lift his head from the pillow.
"The light," he whispered. "Someone must light the lamp."
Maya looked at the winding stairs. They went up, up, up into the darkness.
She was scared. But the ships needed the light.
Maya climbed.
Step by step. Round and round. The wind howled outside. The rain beat against the windows.
Finally, she reached the top. The great lamp sat cold and dark.
Maya remembered watching her father. She turned the valve. She struck the match. She touched the flame to the wick.
WHOOSH!
The light blazed to life!
All night, Maya stayed with the light. She watched it spin. She watched it shine.
In the morning, Papa found her asleep beside the lamp.
"You did it," he said softly. "You kept the light burning."
From that night on, Maya helped light the lamp.
Not because she had to.
Because she was ready.
THE END