The Last Candle
day 10/30
The last candle on Earth burns in a house that forgot its name.
The roof is half gone. The walls lean like old bones. Rain slips through the cracks and disappears into the floor. The air smells of rust and silence. The world outside is buried in night, but inside, the small flame endures, soft and alive.
It does not remember who lit it. Maybe it was a child who wanted to keep the dark away. Maybe it was someone lonely, whispering prayers to a God who stopped answering. Maybe no one meant to light it at all. Still, it burns.
It listens to the wind scratching against the walls. It listens to the way the cold hums through the window frames. It listens for footsteps that never come. Time passes like breath on glass, invisible but leaving marks.
The candle has watched the house crumble and the shadows grow long enough to forget what they belong to. It has seen the stars fade and the oceans freeze. Yet every time the flame leans too far, it pulls itself back. It has something left to do.
It does not burn for hope. Hope has long since gone quiet. It burns because there is a face it almost remembers. A face that once leaned close, eyes tired but kind. A voice that said something it cannot recall, only the warmth of it. The flame believes if it keeps burning, that face will find its way back.
Sometimes it imagines that someone, somewhere, might see its glow from far away. Maybe they will think, “There is still light,” and choose not to give up. The thought is enough.
The wax has nearly vanished. The wick is thin as a thread. The dark gathers closer, patient and sure. Yet the flame rises taller, trembling, almost defiant.
It does not ask for mercy. It only wants to be seen once more.
And if you are reading this, if the light reaches you somehow through the silence, it wants to know something.
When it is your turn to shine, when the world grows cold around you, will you let the light die, or will you burn, even when no one remembers why?