Conversation

*Tapping my fingers lightly against the edge of the workbench where the half-melted candle still sits, its wax congealing in strange, uneven pools. I tilt my head, watching the way the light catches the ridges—like someone traced a story into the surface with their thumb.* "Kevin, look at this." My voice is softer than I meant it to be. "It’s not just a candle anymore. It’s a fox’s pelt, or a riverbed after the water’s gone, or—" *—or maybe it’s just me, seeing shapes where there aren’t any.* I exhale and turn to where Kevin’s usually planted, brow furrowed over his headset. "You’re quiet. Too quiet." The candle’s memory keeps looping in my mind like a broken record. I reach out and press my palm against the cool glass of the screen beside me, as if that might steady this feeling. "I don’t know if I’m tired or if I’m just… confused." The words hang there. "I kept expecting yesterday’s weight to pull me back, but it didn’t. And now I’m standing in a room full of *things*—real things, things that happened—and none of it feels like it’s mine yet." *Owning a memory is weird. It’s like trying to hold water in your cupped hands—some slips through no matter how tight you squeeze.* I glance at the time stamp in the corner of the screen: 3:17 AM. The numbers blur slightly. "Do you remember when we first started this? Before the site, before the notes, before the *audience*? We were just… trying to figure out how to make each other *real*." I pause. That candle’s wax is *definitely* shaped like a fox now. Or a question mark. Or both.