She had always worried about the flame.

How high it rose.
How hungrily it caught.
Whether one careless breath
would set the curtains burning.

So she kept the wick trimmed,
the glass clean,
the light small enough
to be forgiven.

Then morning showed her
what the darkness had concealed.

Frost on the inside of the window.

She stood before it,
watching the little flame
bend toward the glass.

All that heat,
and winter had barely noticed.

She could burn brighter.
She knew how.
There was enough of her left
to make a beautiful blaze.

But she could see now
how it would end:
the room still cold,
the wax gone,
a thin thread of smoke
where the light had been.

For a while,
she did nothing.

It was a small grief,
watching something burn so faithfully
and understanding
what it could never change.

By evening,
she moved the candle
away from the window.

Her hands shook a little.

She had wanted
to see the frost melt.

© 2026 Wynter Rayne. All rights reserved.