On the stair lived a lamp that wanted to be useful all at once. It flared when the cat passed. It flared when the clock ticked. It flared when nobody asked, and the house never slept.
A child sat on the step and said, “Not yet.” The lamp dimmed, surprised. “When?” it asked. “When the socks are found,” said the child, “and the story is open, and the window is shut.”
The lamp practiced waiting. It counted the quiet. When the book opened, it shone just enough to see the pictures, and not enough to wake the rest of the house.
That is how the stair learned evening: light that comes when it is called.