liliput

 Every evening at precisely six thirty, Milo climbed the hill behind his grandmother’s house with an empty glass jar. It was a silly habit, according to everyone else in the village — after all, how could anyone collect sunsets ? But Milo believed he could. He would hold the jar up as the sun began to sink, and when the sky burst into swirls of orange, gold, and violet, he’d quickly twist the lid shut as if trapping the light inside. Then he’d run home and place it on a shelf, next to dozens of other jars, each glowing faintly with the memory of a different evening. No one else saw the light. To them, the jars were just empty glass. But on nights when storms rattled the roof and the world felt too heavy, Milo would uncork one, and the soft warmth would spill out — a gentle reminder of brighter days. One winter, when his grandmother fell ill, the village was wrapped in endless gray. No sunsets. No warmth. Milo sat at her bedside, clutching a jar from midsummer. With trembling ha...