The candle was almost burnt out. My last one. I sat at my table and watched from the window as the sun set. Slowly at first and then all at once, it fell from the sky and from my view. I shifted back to the canslw, burning its last centimeter, and I watched as the wick extinguished itself in the puddle of wet wax with a sharp hiss.

Darkness, then. I loved it. I had chosen this life, but … I had no more candles. The candlemaker said his wax was all gone, and the next nearest shop was hundreds of miles, a four day trip by horse, and I didn’t have means for a horse.

There are those that use artificial light in the forms of bulbs and oils. I scoff at them. My ceiling has outlets only, no bulbs or scalding white lights. I close the window to outside and curl with the light of the stars and the moon. They’ll be my friends until the candles return.