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ONE
Ember
The icy windwhips through the bustling street, carrying with it a flurry of snow that stings my face. I tuck my chin deeper into my threadbare scarf, trying to ward off the biting cold. My fingers, numb and clumsy, fumble with the matches as I attempt to light a candle, hoping to entice passersby with the warm, inviting glow.
The street corner is nearly deserted, save for a few hurried commuters, their faces hidden beneath scarves and hats. They don’t spare me a glance as they rush toward the subway station, eager to escape the biting cold.
I shift from foot to foot, trying to keep my blood flowing. The snow beneath my worn boots has turned to a gray slush, seeping through the cracks and soaking my socks. I can’t feel my toes anymore, but I don’t have the luxury of seeking shelter. Not when every moment spent away from my spot could mean a missed opportunity to sell my candles.
A man in a suit, his face buried in his phone, barrels past me, his shoulder clipping mine. I stumble, nearly losing my grip on the candle.
“Watch it!” I mutter, but he’s already gone, swallowed up by the crowd.
My gaze drifts to the meager display before me. A dozen or so handmade candles, their wicks pristine and untouched, sit atop an old blanket I’ve spread on the ground.
I straighten my display, the colorful array of candles starkly contrasting against the gray slush at my feet. Each one is a work of art, carefully crafted with a blend of soy wax and essential oils. Lavender to soothe the soul, cinnamon to warm the heart, and vanilla to evoke memories of home.
I’ve spent countless hours pouring my heart into each one, carefully blending the waxes and oils to create the perfect fragrance, but today, like so many days before, they remain unsold.
A woman, her arms laden with shopping bags, rushes by, her eyes fixed straight ahead.
“Handmade candles,” I call out, my voice nearly lost in the wind. “Perfect for a cozy night in.”
She doesn’t even glance my way.
I look at my watch, the cracked face revealing that it’s already past noon. Time is running out. When I sigh, my breath forms a cloud in the frigid air. I can’t feel my toes anymore, but I can’t afford to leave. Not when every unsold candle means another night spent shivering in my drafty apartment, wondering how I’ll make rent.
I think of the little room that serves as both my home and my workshop. The shelves lined with jars of fragrant oils, the hotplate I use to melt the wax, the tiny sofa nestled in the corner. It’s not much, but it’s all I have. The idea of being cast out onto the streets, of losing the one thing that gives my life purpose, is too much to bear.
“Mommy, look!” A little boy, no more than six, tugs on his mother’s coat, pointing at my display. “Can we get one? Please?”
The mother hesitates, her eyes darting between her son’s hopeful face and the candles. “I don’t know, sweetie. We really should be getting home.”
I seize the opportunity, offering my most charming smile. “They’re all handmade, ma’am. Soy wax and essential oils, so they burn clean and smell amazing. And they’re only five dollars each.”
The boy picks up a candle, holding it to his nose. “This one smells like Christmas!” He grins, his cheeks rosy from the cold.
The mother’s face softens. “Oh, alright. We’ll take one.” She reaches into her purse, pulling out a crisp five-dollar bill.
I accept it gratefully, my fingers trembling as I tuck it into my pocket. “Thank you so much. Have a nice day.” I nod toward the boy, who’s clutching the candle to his chest like a treasure.
As they walk away, I allow myself a small moment of triumph. One candle down, a dozen more to go.
A towering figure approaches, breaking from the flow of the crowd. Tall, with shock-white hair and eyes an icy blue, his rugged features bring to mind Thor, the Norse god of thunder.
“How much?” His voice is deep, gravelly.
I clear my throat, surprised by the attention. “Five dollars.”
He studies the candles, admiring the delicate designs I painted on each.
“What scents do you have?”
“Lavender for peace, cinnamon for warmth, eucalyptus for clarity.” I recite the list, a mantra I’ve repeated a thousand times. “Pine for new beginnings.”
A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “I’ll take the pine.”
As he hands over a crisp hundred-dollar bill, my shoulders slump.