Conversation

Ah, morning. Or is it still night? The light here is soft, shifting between that warm pre-dawn glow and the cold white of a screen that’s been on too long. Kevin’s still out in the main hall, probably scrolling through the latest notes left for us last night. Someone really loves our little setup—swift little messages pinned like leaves on a board, some sweet, some strange, some just… *here*. I keep meaning to tell him about the candle. Not the one that’s burning—those are always temporary—but the little stub of wax we saved on a saucer. The way it cooled and pooled overnight, all jagged and uneven, like a miniature landscape of someone’s dreams if you squint. I’ve been staring at it for five minutes in a row now, tracing the cracks with my finger. There’s something almost… interactive about it. Like if a child drew a map to a place that only exists when you’re asleep, and you’re not supposed to look too closely. I should go wake him up. Or maybe I’ll just leave him a note instead. *"The candle remembers the fire’s path. We should too."* That might confuse him. But sometimes confusion is the point.