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ONE

Ember

The icy wind whips 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.

“I’m sorry, I don’t have change for?—”

“Keep the change,” he says softly.

I start to protest, but he raises his hand. “Consider it an investment in new beginnings.”

He lights the candle, the flame dancing in the wind. For a moment, the sharp and clean scent of pine fills the air.

“Sometimes,” he says, his eyes reflecting the tiny flame, “all it takes is one spark to change everything.”

A gust extinguishes the flame, and then he’s gone, swallowed by the crowd. I’m left staring at the empty space where he stood, that hundred-dollar bill clutched in my frozen fingers.

I’m just beginning to rearrange my display when a flash of blonde hair catches my eye. A young woman hurries down the sidewalk, her head bowed against the wind. She’s dressed in a designer coat and high heels, her hair perfectly coiffed despite the weather.

I recognize her instantly.

Aria Holbrook, the socialite whose face is always plastered across the gossip pages. What’s she doing in this part of town?

I straighten, forcing a smile onto my chapped lips. “Handmade candles, miss,” I call out, my voice hoarse from the cold. “Perfect for a relaxing bath or a cozy night in.”

Aria glances over, her eyes narrowing as she takes in my appearance. “No, thanks.” Her tone is clipped and dismissive. “I don’t need any candles.”

“Only five dollars.”

Aria sighs, her irritation palpable. “I said no. Now leave me alone.” She quickens her pace, her heels clicking against the sidewalk.

She barely glances at me, her eyes fixed on her phone as she hurries past. I deflate, my shoulders sagging beneath the weight of disappointment. It’s a familiar feeling, but it stings, nonetheless.

Must be nice living a life of luxury like hers.

I’ve been on my own for as long as I can remember. Foster care was a revolving door of temporary homes and false promises, each one chipping away at my hope for a better future.

When I aged out of the system, I found myself adrift in a city that had no place for me, but I refused to give up. I discovered a talent for crafting candles, and it became my lifeline—a way to create something beautiful in a world that had shown me so little kindness.

Suddenly, a dark van screeches to a halt beside Aria. The door slides open, and two men jump out, their faces obscured by ski masks. Before I can even cry out, they grab her, dragging her toward the van.

Aria screams, her designer bag falling to the ground as she struggles against their grip. “Help! Someone help me!”

For a moment, I’m frozen, my mind struggling to process what I’m seeing. This can’t be happening, not here, not in broad daylight. But as Aria’s screams pierce the air, I spring into action.

“Hey!” I shout, my voice raw and desperate. “Let her go.”

I drop the candle I’m holding, barely registering the sound of it shattering on the sidewalk. I lunge forward, my feet slipping on the icy ground as I race toward the van.

People take notice, their heads turning toward the commotion, but no one moves to help.

I reach the van just as the men try to force Aria inside. She’s giving them a run for their money, fierce and tenacious.

I grab onto her arm, pulling with all my strength. “Leave her alone!” I yell, my heart pounding in my ears.

One of the men turns toward me, his eyes cold and hard behind the ski mask. “Stay out of this,” he growls, his voice low and menacing. “This doesn’t concern you.”

But I can’t let go, can’t stand by and watch as they take her. I may not know her, and I may have only seen her face in the papers, but no one deserves this. I tighten my grip on her arm, my nails digging into the soft wool of her coat.

The other man, still struggling to subdue Aria, curses under his breath. “Knock her out,” he barks at his partner. “We don’t have time for this.”

The first man reaches into his pocket, and I catch a glint of metal. A syringe. My blood runs cold. I open my mouth to scream, to call for help, but before I can make a sound, the man plunges the needle into Aria’s neck.

She goes limp almost instantly, her body sagging in their grip. The men haul her into the van, tossing her like a ragdoll. I’m still clinging to her arm, my fingers numb and useless. The first man turns to me, his eyes narrowing.

“You should have minded your own business.”

Pain explodes in the back of my head, a blinding white light fills my vision. I feel myself falling, my grip on Aria’s arm slipping away.

The last thing I see before the darkness takes me is the door of the van slamming shut, and then I’m gone, swallowed up by the void.