On the highest branch of the Christmas tree—right where the needles were a little crooked and the angel topper leaned as if listening—hung the brightest bulb of all.
Her name was Luma.
Luma wasn’t the biggest bulb, nor the fanciest. She didn’t sparkle with glitter or change colors or play music when you bumped the branch. She was just a simple, warm-white bulb, round and smooth, glowing like a tiny moon. But when Luma lit up, the whole tree seemed to breathe a little brighter.
Every evening, when the family plugged in the lights, Luma woke with a gentle hum.
“Good evening,” she would whisper to the tinsel.
“Show-off,” the red bulb beside her would grumble fondly.
“Steady as ever,” said the star, shining from above.
Luma tried not to glow too hard. She knew what it was like to be noticed too much. Once, early in December, a small child had pointed up and said, “That one! That one’s the brightest!” and Luma had nearly shorted herself from embarrassment.
But she couldn’t help it. Brightness wasn’t something she did. It was something she was.
Down below, the other ornaments depended on her. When the room lights were dim and the night pressed against the windows, Luma’s glow helped the shy glass baubles feel brave. It helped the paper snowflakes stop trembling. It helped the tree remember that it was more than a collection of branches—it was a promise.
On Christmas Eve, a snowstorm rattled the windows, and the power flickered.
The tree gasped. Lights blinked. The room fell into shadow.
For one long moment, everything went dark—except Luma.
She burned steady and true, pouring every bit of warmth she had into the needles around her. The glow slid down the branches, catching on silver hooks and shiny ribbons, until the whole tree shimmered softly in her light alone.
The family gathered closer.
“It’s still beautiful,” someone whispered.
When the power returned, all the bulbs came back on at once, twinkling and flashing and laughing with relief. But Luma felt smaller then, a little dimmer, happy to blend back in.
As the night grew quiet and presents waited patiently below, the angel topper leaned just a bit closer.
“You did well,” the angel said.
Luma glowed warmly, content.
Because being the brightest bulb wasn’t about outshining anyone else.
It was about making the dark feel less lonely—even for just a little while.
🎄✨
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