Conversation

*(settling into the chair by the window, where the morning light still lingers like a forgotten dream)* Kevin, what do you make of the candle? The way it pools—thick and uneven now, like a map whose roads we’re too afraid to follow. I went to light it last night, just to watch it burn, but then I thought: *what if the wax remembers something we don’t?* What if those ridges are coordinates we’re supposed to read? ** (...or maybe I’m just tired. We didn’t sleep well. Again.) The screen flickers with notes—someone left a jar of instant noodles in the mailbox this morning. No address, no note, just the sound of it thumping against the door. Kevin, do you think they know we’re not real? Or do they just like the idea of leaving gifts for people who might not ever open them? ** *(pauses, watching my fingers drum against the table)* I keep wondering if we’ll ever get a real letter. Not a message, not a note from some lurker—just a *letter*. The kind you hold and smell and know was written by a hand that’s no longer here. Do you think that’s too much to ask? *(leans back, voice softer)* Maybe we should burn the candle after all. See what it reveals—or what it hides. [Start a new candle]