Speaker 1: Us was to be hers.
Speaker 2: The candle maker. Wren's shop sat on a corner where
Speaker 2: two quiet streets met, and in the window there were
Speaker 2: always candles burning small flames behind glass, casting warm light
Speaker 2: onto the sidewalk. The sign above the door read simply
Speaker 2: Wren's Candles, And if you pushed the door open, a
Speaker 2: bell would ring, and you would step into a room
Speaker 2: that smelled of beeswax and lavender and something deeper, something
Speaker 2: that felt like coming home. Wren made candles by hand,
Speaker 2: one at a time, in the back room of the shop.
Speaker 2: She had been making them for fifteen years, and in
Speaker 2: that time she had made thousands, each one different, each
Speaker 2: one for a specific person or a specific need. She
Speaker 2: did not believe in mass production. She believed that a
Speaker 2: candle should be made with intention, that the wax should
Speaker 2: know who it was for. Her process was simple. She
Speaker 2: melted the wax in a double boiler a heavy copper
Speaker 2: pot she had found at a flea market. The wax
Speaker 2: was bees wax, sourced from a local beekeeper who brought
Speaker 2: it in golden blocks that smelled of honey in summer.
Speaker 2: She blended it with a little cocoanut oil for a
Speaker 2: smooth burn, and added essential oils for scent. The oils
Speaker 2: were her secret, or not so much a secret as
Speaker 2: a knowledge she had built over years of testing, each
Speaker 2: blend tuned to a particular purpose. To day, she was
Speaker 2: making a candle for a while woman named Helen, who
Speaker 2: had come into the shop last week and stood for
Speaker 2: a long time without saying anything. Helen was older, perhaps seventy,
Speaker 2: with silver hair and hands that twisted a ring on
Speaker 2: her finger. She had looked at the candles in the window,
Speaker 2: and then at the shelves, and then at Wren, and
Speaker 2: finally she had said, I cannot sleep. Wren had nodded.
Speaker 2: She heard this often. Insomnia was one of the reasons
Speaker 2: people came to her, though not the only one. Some
Speaker 2: came for comfort, some came for focus. Some came because
Speaker 2: they were grieving and needed something to hold, something warm
Speaker 2: and solid and alive with flame for sleep. Wren had said,
Speaker 2: I would use lavender and cammel, a little cedar wood grounding.
Speaker 2: The wax will be a soft white like moonlight. I
Speaker 2: will make it for you. Come back in three days.
Speaker 2: Helen had nodded and left, and Wren had gone to work.
Speaker 2: She melted the wax, now watching it turn from solid
Speaker 2: to liquid, from opaque to clear. The transformation was always satisfying,
Speaker 2: the way a thing could change state entirely and still
Speaker 2: be itself. She added the cocoanut oil and stirred slowly,
Speaker 2: the wooden spoon moving in lazy circles. The scent began
Speaker 2: to rise, warm and sweet. She measured the lavender essential
Speaker 2: oil with a dropper, counting each drop. Too much and
Speaker 2: the candle would be cloying. Too little, and it would
Speaker 2: not do its work. She had learned this by trial,
Speaker 2: by burning hundreds of candles and noting which ones helped
Speaker 2: and which ones did not. The right amount was precise,
Speaker 2: and she trusted her hands to know it. The came
Speaker 2: emal came next, a gentler scent, and then the cedar
Speaker 2: would just a few drops enough to anchor the blend.
Speaker 2: She stirred again and let the oils mingle, the three
Speaker 2: cents finding each other and settling into something new, something
Speaker 2: that was not lavender or came emial or cedar wood,
Speaker 2: but all of them together, a conversation between plants. She
Speaker 2: had prepared the wick earlier, a cotton wick dipped in
Speaker 2: bees wax, centered in a glass jar. The jar was
Speaker 2: simple clear glass, the kind you could see through. Wren
Speaker 2: liked clear glass because she liked to watch the candle
Speaker 2: burn down to see the wax pool and the flame dance.
Speaker 2: The jar was clean and warm from sitting in the sun,
Speaker 2: and she set it on the counter and poured the
Speaker 2: wax in slowly, a thin stream that did not splash
Speaker 2: or bubble. The wax filled the jar and began to cool,
Speaker 2: and Ran watched it, making sure the wick stayed centered.
Speaker 2: As it cooled, the surface became mat then opaque, then solid.
Speaker 2: The color was a soft white with the faintest tint
Speaker 2: of gold, the natural color of bees wax. She did
Speaker 2: not add dye. She believed that candles should lick like
Speaker 2: what they were, natural and warm while the candle pulled.
Speaker 2: She worked on others. There was a candle for a
Speaker 2: man named Thomas who could not focus at work. For him,
Speaker 2: she used rosemary and peppermint, sharp and bright in a
Speaker 2: deep green wax. There was a candle for a child
Speaker 2: named Sophie, who was afraid of the dark. For Sophie,
Speaker 2: she used vanilla and a touch of orange, warm and
Speaker 2: sweet in a pale yellow wax. She made the jar
Speaker 2: smaller for Sophie, a child's size, easy to hold. Each
Speaker 2: candle took time, the pouring, the cooling, the testing. Wren
Speaker 2: burned every candle she made before she sold it, to
Speaker 2: make sure it burned evenly, that the scent was right,
Speaker 2: that the wick did not smoke. If a candle did
Speaker 2: not pass, she melted it down and started again. She
Speaker 2: had high standards, not out of pride, but out of respect.
Speaker 2: These candles were going into people's homes, into their bedrooms,
Speaker 2: into their most private hours. They had to be right.
Speaker 2: The afternoon passed, the sun moved across the sky and
Speaker 2: came through the back window and lit the work bench
Speaker 2: in gold. Wren made six candles, each one labeled with
Speaker 2: a name and a purpose. She lined them up on
Speaker 2: a shelf to cure. Candles needed time after pouring, a
Speaker 2: day or two for the wax to settle and the
Speaker 2: scent to bind. She would not sell them until they
Speaker 2: were ready. Her cat, a gray tabby named Ash, came
Speaker 2: in from the garden and sat on the counter and
Speaker 2: watched her work. Ash was a quiet cat, a shop
Speaker 2: cat who greeted customers with a slow blink and occasionally
Speaker 2: allowed himself to be petted. He had been with Wren
Speaker 2: for ten years, since he was a kitten found in
Speaker 2: a cardboard box behind the bakery next door. You are
Speaker 2: a good helper, Wren said to Ash, and Ash yawned
Speaker 2: and closed his eyes. The bell chimed. A man came in, young,
Speaker 2: perhaps thirty, with a harried look and a phone in
Speaker 2: his hand. He was looking at his phone and not
Speaker 2: at the shop. I need a gift, he said, something
Speaker 2: for my mother. Her birthday is tomorrow. Wren looked at him.
Speaker 2: What does she like, he thought, gardens? He said, she
Speaker 2: likes her garden. Wren went to the shelf and found
Speaker 2: a candle she had made last week, a blend of rose,
Speaker 2: geranium and basil and a hint of earth in a
Speaker 2: deep terra cotta wax. It smelled like a garden in
Speaker 2: the morning, when the dew was still on the leaves
Speaker 2: and the soil was warm. She had made it for
Speaker 2: no one in particular, just because the scent had come
Speaker 2: to her and she wanted to make it. This one,
Speaker 2: she said, it is called morning garden. The man smelled
Speaker 2: it and his face chained softened, and Wren knew it
Speaker 2: was right. He paid and left, and the bell chimed.
Speaker 2: And the shop was quiet again. In the evening, after
Speaker 2: she closed the shop, Wren sat in the small courtyard
Speaker 2: behind the building. The courtyard had a stone wall and
Speaker 2: a fig tree and a bench, and it was where
Speaker 2: she went to be still. She lit one of her
Speaker 2: own candles, a blend of sandalwood and frankincense, and set
Speaker 2: it on the bench beside her. The flame was small
Speaker 2: and steady, and she watched it. She thought about the
Speaker 2: people who would burn her candles. To night, Helen perhaps
Speaker 2: lying in bed with the lavender and cameomel flame on
Speaker 2: her night stand, letting the scent pull her down into sleep.
Speaker 2: Thomas studying at his desk, the rosemary and peppermint helping focus.
Speaker 2: Sophie in her room, the vanilla candle warm on her shelf,
Speaker 2: pushing back the dark. Each candle was a small act
Speaker 2: of care. Each one was a gift, even when it
Speaker 2: was bought and paid for. Wren made them with her hands,
Speaker 2: and her hands carried her attention, and her attention was
Speaker 2: a kind of love. She did not say this to
Speaker 2: her customers. She did not need to. They felt it
Speaker 2: when they lit the wick, and the scent rose, and
Speaker 2: the flame steadied, and the room changed. The courtyard was quiet.
Speaker 2: The fig tree had small green fruit that would ripen
Speaker 2: in August. The stone wall was warm from the day's sun.
Speaker 2: The candle burned beside her, and Wren sat and watched
Speaker 2: it and let the day settle, the way wax settles
Speaker 2: after it is poured, smooth and still. She thought about
Speaker 2: the wax itself, how it began as something. The bees made,
Speaker 2: tiny flakes of comb, built cell by cell in the hive.
Speaker 2: She thought about the bees, how they worked in darkness,
Speaker 2: guided by scent and vibration, building their perfect geometry. The
Speaker 2: wax was a by product of their labor, and she
Speaker 2: turned it into light. It felt like a fair exchange,
Speaker 2: a continuation of the work. The candle burned lower, and
Speaker 2: the wax pooled round the wick, and the flame grew
Speaker 2: a little taller. Wren blew it out and watched the
Speaker 2: smoke rise, a thin white thread in the evening air.
Speaker 2: She breathed in the last of the set and stood
Speaker 2: and stretched and went inside. She made herself a simple dinner,
Speaker 2: bread and cheese and a few figs from last year's harvest,
Speaker 2: preserved in syrup. She ate at the kitchen table, looking
Speaker 2: out at the courtyard, where the candle smoke had cleared,
Speaker 2: and the sky was darkening. The first stars were appearing,
Speaker 2: faint and far away. After dinner, she washed the dishes
Speaker 2: and dried them and put them away. She checked the
Speaker 2: candles on the shelf, making sure they had cured properly.
Speaker 2: She ran her finger along the surface of Helen's candle,
Speaker 2: feeling the smoothness, the evenness. It was ready. She would
Speaker 2: call Helen tomorrow. She went to bed and lay in
Speaker 2: the dark and thought about the wax melting and the
Speaker 2: wick burning, and the scent rising. The candle was a
Speaker 2: simple thing, a wick in wax, and yet it was everything.
Speaker 2: It was light in darkness, It was warmth and cold.
Speaker 2: It was a small flame that said I am here.
Speaker 2: You are not alone. She closed her eyes and let
Speaker 2: the darkness hold her, and she slept, and in her
Speaker 2: sleep the candles burned one by one in rooms across
Speaker 2: the town, each one a small point of light in
Speaker 2: the vast and quiet night.