The storm knocked out the power just as dinner was ending. One second the kitchen was bright and humming; the next, the fridge fell silent and the whole house went dark. My little sister, Priya, gasped and grabbed my sleeve.

"Where are the torches?" Dad called, but the drawer was a jumble of dead batteries. Mum lit two fat candles instead, and the kitchen turned gold and shadowy, a room I did not quite recognise.

With no screens and no lights, there was suddenly nothing to do, which was strange, because usually there was too much. Dad started telling us about the blackouts of his own childhood, and Mum laughed at parts I had never heard. Priya begged for a shadow puppet show, so we made a wolf and a rabbit dance across the wall.

The power came back at half past nine. The fridge shuddered awake, the lights blazed, and the screens all blinked their times at us like startled owls. For a moment, nobody moved to reset them.

"That was actually nice," Priya said quietly. I knew what she meant. We had spent a whole evening in the same small circle of candlelight, and for once, none of us had wanted to be anywhere else.