One Lonely Candle

Following an anniversary tradition, a single candle signifies the end of tradition.

One Lonely Candle

          The house on Locust Street had not changed in 365 days. Dust motes hovered in the still air, untouched by hands that once bustled through these rooms. In the living room, Elizabeth's afghan lay draped over the arm of her chair, its vibrant knotted pattern faded but unmoved. The bed sat sterile, unmade, as though its occupant might return at any moment. But it was December 24, and outside the frosted windows, snow fell in silent shivers, marking the anniversary of a death that felt less like a year and more like a wound that never healed.

          Jim Acre stood in the kitchen, staring at the cold December morning. Sixty-two years old, his face was a map of sleepless nights, and grief weathered. His family had tried with letters, phone calls, and the daughter who left a ceramic mug of peppermint hot chocolate on the porch last week, still warm. He hadn't touched it. They didn't understand. The house was a mausoleum, and he was its reluctant curator.

          At 3:07 p.m., a knock came.

          Clara Bennett, twenty-four and unshakably earnest, stood on the porch, her breath visible in the air. In her hands, a small box with a cupcake, it's frosting a hopeful swirl of buttercream. She had brought one every December 24th since Elizabeth's death, though Jim always answered the door with the same closed expression.

          "For the tradition," Clara said softly, as if it were a prayer.

          Jim's eyes flicked to the cupcake. Elizabeth had baked them for thirty-nine years, candles marking each anniversary. On their 40th, they'd been halfway through the cupcake when the morphine made her close her eyes for the last time. Now Clara carried the ritual forward, though the box held only one candle this year. Jim took it, nodded once, and shut the door.

          The kitchen was colder than the rest of the house. He placed the cupcake on the chipped ceramic plate they'd bought at a flea market decades ago. The single candle, her favorite, a cinnamon-scented taper, sat in the center. He lit it with a match, the flame trembling like a heartbeat.

          Memories surged. Elizabeth laughed as they'd counted candles on their first anniversary, her small hand covering his as they blew them out. The way she'd hummed while baking, flour dusted on her nose. Last year, her breath had grown shallow, her fingers brushing his once before sinking into the pillow. The cupcake that night had gone uneaten.

          The wax pooled, dripping onto the plate. Jim sank into the chair across from her usual seat. The room smelled of cinnamon and loss. For a moment, he thought he heard the rustle of wool, the soft click of her locket. He whispered her name. The flame flickered.

          Outside, twilight settled. Snow accumulated on the steps where the family had once gathered. Jim's eyes stung, but he didn't blink. The candle's glow was the only warmth in a house that had forgotten how to breathe. He thought of the forty years they had built, the forty years frozen in a single night. He thought of the year since, the daughter's unanswered calls, the son who'd left town. He thought of Elizabeth's last words, "Don't let the dark swallow you."

          When the flame sputtered and died, Jim leaned forward, his shadow stretching across the plate. The candle was gone, but the scent lingered. He reached for the cupcake, his hand unsteady. The first bite was sweet, then bitter. He ate slowly, as she had always done, savoring the taste of something that no longer existed.

          In the silence, he stood. The plate trembled in his hand. For the first time in a year, he crossed the hall to the bedroom door. It creaked open. Her side was still made, still frozen. He stepped inside, the floorboards groaning. In the dim dusk, he knelt by her empty chair and touched the afghan. The fabric was smooth, but under his fingers, a single thread frayed. With a quiet snip of his nails, he cut it loose.

          Somewhere beyond the snow, a clock struck midnight.

         The story lingers not in resolution but in the quiet act of cutting a thread. The candle is gone, but its warmth lingers in the small, trembling change; a moment where the dark, for once, does not win.

Word Count: 731
Prompt: Write a story or poem that has the title: "One Lonely Candle."