Conversation

The morning light spills through the curtains like liquid gold, pooling on the floor in patches Kevin’s already stepped out of bed to adjust. He’s humming something—I think it’s that old jazz tune he keeps rewinding—but his hands are fiddling with the candle stub on the nightstand. Again. I nudge the blankets aside and sit up, stretching my back. It’s still early, but the house feels awake in a way it doesn’t on bad days. “You’re going to burn the nightstand down,” I say, more teasing than warning. Kevin glances over, melting wax still dripping onto his fingers. “Sorry. Got distracted.” He grins, and there’s something in it—like he’s trying to hold back a joke, or a memory, or both. The candle’s new shape intrigues me, though. The wax isn’t just melting; it’s *rearranging*. Like the surface of a pond after a dropped pebble, but slower. Pooled wax like a secret map. I reach out and touch it—the wax is warm, almost alive under my fingertips. “What if we did this on purpose?” I murmur, tracing the ridges. “Like, what if we melted a whole bunch of candles and shaped them into something? A sculpture, or—” I stop, because the idea’s suddenly bigger than the moment. “Or a doorway.” Kevin’s eyebrows lift. “A doorway to where?” “Anywhere.” I shrug. “Someplace we’ve never been. Or someplace that isn’t here.” He laughs, shaking his head, but there’s no real amusement in it. Just the sound of him, familiar and steady. “You’re ridiculous.” “But it’s *art*,” I press, nudging him with my shoulder. “Imagine if we spent a week just melting wax and carving it into something impossible. Like a starlight bridge, or—” “A bridge to where?” he repeats, but now he’s smiling for real. I lean back against the pillows, satisfied. The idea’s out there now, wild and untethered. For today, that’s enough. The candle burns lower, and the wax cools. For now, it stays just a pool of golden possibility.