The Candle Maker’s Last Flame

My earliest conscious memory is of the laundry room. Not the one in our flat, but the one in the building where my mother worked as a cleaner. I was four, maybe five. I remember the smell of bleach and the hum of the industrial dryer. I remember the flicker of a fluorescent tube that was on its last legs.

It was after hours, and Mum had told me to stay put while she finished the bathrooms. I was sitting on a stack of folded towels, watching the white of the sheets tumble in the dryer, when the door to the storage closet creaked open. I remember the sound, not like wood, but like a long, slow exhale. From the darkness, a figure stepped out, shaped like a man, but made of something that didn’t quite catch the light. It wore overalls, stained with something dark, and carried a long, thin object in its hand.

It didn’t speak. It just stood there, staring at me with eyes that were not eyes but empty sockets filled with a pale, pulsing light. Then it raised its hand—the thing it held—and it wasn’t a tool, but a candle, unlit. It made a motion, as if to light it, but no flame appeared. Instead, the fluorescent tube above me went out, plunging the room into darkness except for the glow from its sockets. I felt a cold hand on my cheek, and a voice like the hiss of steam whispered, ‘Not yet.’

I screamed, and Mum came running. She found me huddled behind the dryer, sobbing, and the storage closet door was still open. She said I was clutching the air, my fingers stiff, and I kept repeating, ‘The candle man, the candle man.’ She thought it was a nightmare, but she found a burnt match on the floor near my feet, still warm.

Years later, when I was eleven, we moved to a new town, to an old house with a cellar I was forbidden from entering. But I was curious, as kids are. One afternoon, when my parents were out, I pried the lock with a hairpin and slipped down the narrow wooden stairs. The air was cold and smelled of wax and dust. The only light came from a small, barred window, casting a single beam onto the dirt floor.

In the corner, I saw a workbench, cluttered with half-melted candles of every color and size. There were wicks coiled like tiny snakes, and jars of colored wax. A photograph was nailed to the wall—a man in overalls, similar to the figure from the laundry room, but this one had a face. He was young, with a gentle smile, and behind him, the same workbench. I felt a chill, and then I noticed a small, leather-bound book lying open. The pages were brittle, and the handwriting was neat but old-fashioned. It read, ‘Step the third: When the flame is blue, the spirit is near. Hold the candle to the heart, and speak the name.’

I didn’t speak any name. I backed away, and as I did, my arm brushed a candle on the edge of the bench. It toppled and rolled, stopping at my feet. It was white, unlit, but as I bent to pick it up, I saw something was carved into the side—a name. My name. Elara. And beneath it, ‘Loved.’

I took the candle and ran upstairs, slipping it into my pocket. I didn’t tell my parents, but that night, I lit it in my room, thinking it would reveal something. The flame was blue. And in the flickering light, I saw her—my grandmother, who had died before I was born. She smiled at me, and she said, ‘He always loved you, girl. He’s just not ready to let go.’

I blew out the flame, but the image lingered. The man in the laundry room, the candle maker, he was my great-grandfather. He had been a candlemaker, I learned later from an old aunt, and he had died in that laundry room, where he had once worked as a janitor, after a bizarre accident with a faulty furnace. They said he was found with a candle in his hand, unlit, and a smile on his face.

For weeks after, I felt his presence—a warmth in my room at night, a gentle touch on my shoulder when I was sad, but also a weight, as if he was following me, waiting for something. Then, one evening, I was doing dishes, and the water ran cold. I looked down, and the reflection in the window showed not my face, but his, staring back at me with those empty, glowing sockets. His lips moved, and I heard him clearly, as if from inside my own head: ‘The flame is going out, Elara. Only you can relight it.’

I dropped the glass, and it shattered. I felt a pull, like a strong hand gripped my chest, and I was drawn to the cellar, to the workbench. I knew what I had to do. I found a mold, a candle in the shape of a hand, and I melted wax, mixed in my own hair and tears, and poured it. As it cooled, I inscribed my grandmother’s name, the one who had died before I was born, and then I lit it. The flame was pure white, and the room was flooded with a gentle light, and I saw him again, but not as the hollow figure—as a young man, smiling.

He said, ‘Now I can rest.’ And he faded, and the candle burned out by itself, leaving only a wisp of smoke. I never saw him again, but I kept the candle, a white one with my name carved on it. It sits on my dresser, unlit, and I know, one day, I’ll light it, and I’ll join him. Not out of fear, but out of love. Because he was always there, just waiting, in the flame.

I’ve told this story to very few. They say I dream it, but they don’t know the weight of an unlit candle in your pocket, or the way a touch can chill your bones and warm your heart at the same time. And they don’t know that sometimes, when the house is quiet, and the lights are low, I hear the scrape of a match, and I know he’s checking on me, to make sure my flame is still burning.