James Washkau

The Last Firefly

Lena loved catching fireflies. Every summer evening, as the sun dipped below the hills, she would race outside with her jar, watching the tiny lights flicker in the warm night air.

But this summer was different. Grandpa wasn’t sitting on the porch like he used to, smiling as she ran barefoot through the grass. His chair was empty. And no matter how many fireflies she caught, her heart felt heavier than ever.

One night, as Lena sat on the steps holding her jar, a single firefly landed on her hand. It blinked once, then twice, and she thought about how Grandpa used to say, “Fireflies are like little stars that visit us on Earth.”

She gently cupped the firefly in her hands. “I miss him,” she whispered. The firefly blinked again, as if it understood.

Then, instead of placing it in her jar, Lena slowly opened her hands. The firefly hovered for a moment before drifting up into the sky, its tiny light blending with the stars above.

And for the first time that summer, Lena didn’t feel quite so alone.