Elira returned home just as the last light slipped from the sky.
The air was cool,
And the windows of her cottage glowed faintly with the warmth of the evening.
She had been moving all day,
Walking,
Listening,
Doing,
Carrying,
And her body felt hollow in the way it does when you've given too much without stopping.
She closed the door behind her and stood quietly for a moment.
Something was different.
On the windowsill,
Where she usually kept a jar of feathers and old letters,
Sat a small candle.
Unlit.
Unfamiliar.
Its wax shimmered like honey,
And its wick curled like a question mark.
She hadn't bought a candle.
She didn't remember ever seeing this one before.
Still,
Something about it called to her.
She struck a match.
The flame touched the wick,
And the room filled with golden light,
Not bright,
But warm.
The kind of light that feels like it belongs in the chest rather than the eyes.
As the flame danced,
A hush settled around her.
She sat.
Not because she thought to,
But because her body asked her to.
The candle glowed softly,
And in that light,
Her thoughts began to slow.
Each breath she took seemed to feed the flame.
Inhale.
Exhale.
The room blurred slightly at the edges.
And then,
Quite suddenly,
The space around her faded into something else.
She found herself sitting not in her cottage,
But in a wide,
Quiet meadow lit only by candlelight.
The grass swayed gently in a wind she couldn't feel.
Above her,
Stars blinked into view,
Slowly and patiently.
Floating all around her were tiny flames,
Each one no larger than a thimble,
Drifting through the air like dandelion seeds.
They made no sound,
But their presence was music enough.
One flame hovered near her chest.
As she inhaled,
It brightened.
As she exhaled,
It dimmed.
She breathed again.
And again.
Slower this time.
Easier.
The candlelight in her chest grew warmer.
The floating flames began to settle gently onto her skin,
Her shoulders,
Her hands,
Her brow.
Each one melted tension,
Softened thoughts.
Each one whispered in its own quiet language.
You are safe now.
You are home.
You are allowed to rest.
She lay back in the grass,
Eyes half-closed,
The stars above slowly turning.
The original candle,
The one on her windowsill,
Flickered once more.
And the warmth of the wind hushed.
Inside,
Her breath slowed.
A little slower now.
A little easier.
And as the candle burned low beside her,
The last thought drifted away,
Like a feather caught in a soft breeze.
Wrapped in warmth.
Carried by stillness.
