The Candle That Wouldn’t Go Out

When Eleanor’s grandmother died, she inherited a strange candle: pure black wax, no scent, no wick showing. A note was tied around it: “Light this only when you miss me most.”

She did — one night, during a thunderstorm. The flame burst alive, tall and blue. It didn’t melt the wax. It didn’t flicker. It burned for seven days straight.

At first, it comforted her — the warmth, the soft light that seemed to hum faintly. Then she noticed her grandmother’s voice whispering from within the flame, finishing her thoughts mid-sentence.

On the seventh night, the flame whispered, “You can rest now.” Then, for the first time, it dimmed.

The next morning, the candle was gone. In its place sat a photo — Eleanor asleep in her chair, smiling faintly, her grandmother standing behind her, her hand on her shoulder.