My mistress lights her candles at dawn, and does not stop until dusk. And then it is dawn again, and she continues to light them. Row after row of tiny white flames ignite from the tips of her fingers. Night never comes, she says, when there are candles to be lit.
Our home — a simple, bright abode — is by a wide, expansive river. Its banks stretch endlessly, empty save for the old tree that arches its ancient branches over our roof. Its waters are wide as the sea. I cannot see to the other side, nor can I see to its bottom. Sometimes I imagine that secrets hide within it. Like exotic, colorful fish, or sleek pebbles that shine in the sun. But these are merely dreams, for I see nothing in the waters save for her candles.
My mistress is a patient woman. She crafts each candle with care. Round, golden candles appear at her touch. Each one can sit in the palm of my hand with room to spare. Each one perfect and flawless. I sometimes ask why she makes them each the same. Surely, I say, it would be more interesting to make them different. Some tall, some short, some red or black, maybe even some in funny shapes, like a bird or the tip of my nose. But my mistress simply shakes her head when I say these things, and I imagine I must be very silly.