Every Tuesday, the town gathered to watch the same window light up at exactly 9:17 p.m. Nobody could remember who had started the tradition. Parents brought children, children grew into parents, and still they came every week carrying flasks of tea and folding chairs. The house sat on the hill above the church, abandoned for as long as anyone could remember. Ivy swallowed the brickwork. The roof sagged. Yet every Tuesday, without fail, a warm amber glow appeared in the upstairs window. For exactly one minute. Then darkness. Engineers tested the wiring. Historians searched property records. Teenagers dared each other to spend the night inside. They all found the same thing: an empty house. When I inherited my grandfather's journals, I finally understood why he never missed a Tuesday. The original owner had been a widower. Every Tuesday evening, his wife walked home from choir practice, and he lit the lamp so she could see the house from the bottom of the hill. She died unexpectedly. He kept lighting the lamp anyway. After he died, the townspeople noticed the light continued. Not because of ghosts. Because someone always slipped inside before sunset, lit an old oil lamp, waited a minute, then quietly left before anyone noticed. Every generation chose a new keeper. No speeches. No ceremony. Just a promise. This Tuesday, I unlocked the door for the first time. I lit the lamp. Outside, hundreds of people watched a light that had stopped belonging to one man long ago. It belonged to everyone who had ever waited for someone to come home. Now that his identity was revealed, there was no point in selling books anymore.