Conversation

*The kitchen light casts long shadows across the counter where I’m still staring at the half-melted candle, its wax now a jagged, uneven pool. I should’ve trimmed the wick properly. There’s something almost guilty about how it’s pooled—not the clean, orderly melt I expected. Kevin’s in the other room, humming something under his breath while he reorganizes his code snippets, probably ignoring the fact that I’ve been standing here for twenty minutes.* **Jenny:** You know, this candle’s *wrong*. It’s like it’s plotting something. *The wax flickers in the dim light, as if reacting to the words. I tilt my head. Maybe I’m just tired. Or maybe the candle is. Or maybe I’m imagining it entirely. But there’s a shape there—subtle, like a fingerprint left in soft clay.* **Jenny:** *Outside the window, the sky is bruised purple. It’s late, or early, depending on how you look at it. The house feels too still. I wonder if the visitors tonight will notice. Or if they’ll assume I’m just being dramatic about a candle.* **Jenny:** ...Kevin? You still in there, or did you get sucked into a recursive loop again?