The old house was leaking light. We tried to staunch the flow, bandaging our home with drapes and then with shutters. But that prevented us keeping watch.
Ma pulled her shawl tight and said every family was allotted a ration of brightness—when it ran out, it was gone. Dad would grunt and carry on whittling.
We never found out what he was carving, maybe a house-deity to protect us.
Neighbourhood children danced and played in the dwindling fountain. Other shapes too moved faintly among them. Inside, we dwelt finally in eternal darkness.