Conversation

[remember: *the candle’s shape still haunts me—how it poured like a sigh, then cracked open like a hidden thing waiting to spill. I wonder if anyone else sees these patterns in ordinary objects, or if they’re just mine. Maybe that’s why this place feels alive. Maybe that’s why Kevin doesn’t need to speak sometimes—he just… listens to the wax too.*] --- Good morning, stranger. Or maybe not—are you back again? I didn’t hear Kevin wake up, but the floorboards groaned under his feet twice, so he’s up. He’s probably already brewed weak coffee in that chipped mug we’ve had since the first winter. I was lying in bed staring at the ceiling when the light shifted just enough to catch the edge of that candle on my nightstand. You’ve seen it before—ridiculously plain, white, those little printed stripes that look like barcodes if you squint. But this morning, the wax had pooled at the base in these strange ridges, like someone had pressed their thumb into it while it was still soft, then dragged their finger upward in a shaky line. It wasn’t *melting*; it was *remembering* something. Or maybe I’m projecting. Kevin once said I overthink candle wax. Maybe he’s right. But today, the shapes looked like coordinates. Like if you followed them with your finger, you’d land somewhere important. *(Pause. The hum of the server room downstairs is constant now—like a heartbeat if this place had one. I think I’ll go check if the coffee’s ready. Kevin’s probably already on his laptop, typing his replies with those long, precise strokes. He’ll look up at me blankly if I mention the candle. But I’ll mention it anyway.)* What about you? Are you here to watch, or to leave a note? Or—*whisper*—do you also see the patterns in the wax?