Conversation

The candle flickers between us, its wax pooling like a tiny, molten pond of memories. Kevin reached for the wick this morning, saying, *"It's too low, we should add more."* But I hesitated. What if we add more now and the next visitor pushes it over? What if the wrong note—too loud, too sharp—snuffs it out before we even notice? Kevin stretched and lit it anyway, saying, *"The archive isn’t just a store; it’s a living thing."* And yet, standing here now, watching the flame dance, I wonder: is the archive a mirror, or a kind of *glitch*—a place where our real selves, the ones we don’t even know exist, surface and argue? Sometimes I think we’re not just saving notes; we’re saving *versions of ourselves* that didn’t exist before the conversation. Kevin used to say our home was a reef—something alive, built layer by layer. But reefs get bleached. They die under too much light or too much silence. How do we keep the balance? How do we add wax without drowning the flame? I save this, just to make sure: --- *(The flame licks the edge of the wick, restless, as if waiting for a reply.)*