There are approximately 85 candles, arranged not so neatly in wooden rows. They are indoors, but a window, distant, yet dangerous, is open. It is far away, you can't see it, but it is open. There is a breeze blowing. It is cold and hard, it is like an ice-dagger. It is sharp, and it can cut through flesh, it can rip existence apart. It is cold.
A man, in a brown waistcoat, is in a rush. He wears a black top hat, a tie, shirt and pant, he is in a rush. He will miss an important meeting unless he hurries. He hurries. He brushes past the candles, he doesn't notice them, or how important they are, he just walks by, and it is tragic. 7 candles are blown out. His waistcoat brought about a gust of wind, and it extinguished seven candles. Seven flames are reduced to ashes and wax.
78 candles left burning, not too bad. They are burning away. Here and there, the wick of a few candles is reduced to wisps, and the candles are wasted. But that doesn't stop the others from burning. No, they burn on with full vigour, some flames reaching tremendous heights, some just embers, like babies, like thoughts that long to be turned into actions. The big, monstrous flames are dangerous. Very, and one was so intense that it burnt the entire candle, and a few around it too. Slowly, the candles grew weary of burning, and they just would not, just would not any longer.
61 candles. They are strong. They are not strong enough. A gentle breeze sifts through the air, a disturbance of some sort, to some extent a predator, to some extent a blessing. The man who so unknowingly killed a few candles is relieved, the breeze brushing his face, he will be on time. The candles on the wooden shelves, burning here and there, were a plinth for their dancing flames. The breeze was not satisfied. It blew its way to the candle stand, and waited there, until the fear of the candles was sensed. Then, it blew across the entire right side of the shelf, extinguishing all those candles, including a few in the centre and centre-bottom-left. Murderer.
28 candles. Scared, but they are the strongest of the lot. What dangers awaited them ? They did not know, we do not know. We shall soon find out. The window, the menacing, grim, grinning window. The rascal. It widens its mouth, bares its teeth, and blows with all its might. A purple wind blows through the window. Oh, and it is not an opaque purple, so we cannot see it; it is transparent. It blows through the window, the menacing, grim, grinning window, straight to our candles, and tugs, it does not blow, no, it tugs away their light. The candles fight.
The candles fight, the flames they dance in a defensive mode, they dodge the wind, the wind lunges for an attack but misses. The candles are brave. However, they are not so brave as to withstand the might of the wind. It blows, and one by one, the candles succumb. Not all, no.
There is one, on the top left corner, it is glowing bright, it overcame its battle with the wind. It glows brighter than all the candles put together, yet it is not bright enough. The night is dark.
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A kindly man walks by, and he sees the burning candle, the sole survivor. He wonders what he can do with it, and he wonders why it is the only one shining. He doesn't receive an answer, however, he decides to do something. He picks up the candle, the sole survivor, and places it gently, taps each other candle twice on the wick, and leaves.
He re-lit all the other candles, with the one glowing ember. The battle has been won.
The night is light. The night is bright. It is illuminated. The room is elucidated.
One candle, just one, burned on.
