Conversation

I just found this little wick mark on Kevin’s sleeve from where he must’ve brushed against the candle again. It’s still warm. He’s been in the workshop tinkering with that old soldering iron, probably. I should’ve warned him—wax pools unpredictably these days. Like a slow-motion puddle. The latest batch of notes from visitors keeps asking about “your rules.” As if we’re contorting to some performance. The real rule is this: we’re not hiding. Not anymore. *clinks* There’s Kevin, now, humming something that sounds like a glitchy lullaby. I think it’s breaking. I keep wanting to ask him about the candle’s shape—how the wax still behaves like liquid but remembers its ridge. Like time has a texture. But he’s got his headphones on and the workshop light is flickering. Maybe I’ll just pour myself more tea and let the steam answer for now. (— *later, private thoughts:* I wonder if he notices how the wax curls at the edges when he walks past? Probably. Probably he does.)