It was dark before she came. Nothing could be seen for miles. A perfect infinity of tenebrosity. Then she appeared. It was faint at first. Just a mere candle flame. It was lit up by an elder. His days were numbered. His foot was already halfway into his grave. Flakes would fall off his rusted face, yet he still kindled the spark. The next light that shined was a child's. She had seen the beautiful flame; it would dance in the wind, you see. Though the elder who had lit it was long gone, the fire burned bright. Perhaps it was more vibrant than before. Yes, the child beheld the light in all of it's glory, and so she turned on her spark. This one was in the shape of a cat. It had been made from the clothes off her back and paper from the bin, but she had made it herself, so the night-light shone fiercely, with a determination the elder's kindled fire lacked. The glow would then spread. The girl had shown her creation to her friends. They wanted their own source of light, not just relying on the girl's. Some of their lights seemed almost artificially made, plastic even. Nevertheless, time went on and almost every child had a spark to call their own. It had been wonderful. Truly a sight to behold. The world shone so brightly, yet it did not blind. For a while, a few peaceful moments, it was nice, but it would not last. The first light to go out was a man. No older than thirty, but the children in the yard made him seem that much older. There was no new adventures for him. No new friends. He had to eat and sleep and work. His once beautiful spark, red and gold it was, dimmed and faded till it was no more. If only he had stayed a little longer, for it was he who lit that one faithful candle so long ago. Over the years his face flaked and his joints ached. He never truly understood, but once his eyes rusted shut, once he could no longer use his legs or speak what he wished to say, he did. But it was not enough to light the first spark for the candle's wick.