It happened on a stormy evening in January. I was in the middle of my homework when, suddenly, everything went dark. The fridge stopped humming, the TV went silent, and outside the window the whole street disappeared into the night. “A power cut,” my father said. “Probably the storm.”
At first, I was annoyed. My phone had only ten percent battery, and I had planned to watch a film online with my friends. My little sister Maya was scared and held my mother's hand. Dad found two candles and a flashlight in the kitchen drawer, and we all sat together in the living room.
Then Grandma, who lives with us, started to talk. She told us about her childhood in a small village, where the electricity often stopped for hours. “We didn't mind,” she said. “We sang songs and told stories, and the nights felt longer and warmer.” I had never heard these stories before. Even Maya forgot to be afraid.
Later, there was a knock on the door. It was our neighbor, Mr. Levi, with a pot of hot tea that he had made on his gas stove. Soon, three families were sitting on our floor, sharing tea, biscuits and jokes. I realized that I had lived in this building for six years and barely knew these people.
Before bed, I went out to the balcony. Without the city lights, I could see more stars than ever before. Just after midnight, the lights came back on with a loud beep from the fridge. Strangely, I felt a little disappointed. The power had gone out, but for one evening, something else had been switched on.