I was finishing up my afternoon shift at the gas station when the power flickered once, twice,

then died for good.

The store went silent, except for the hum of the old drink fridge winding down,

and outside the entire street had begun melting into darkness.

For a moment, I stood behind the cash register, staring at the dead monitors, thinking about how I'd be leaving this place for college in two weeks, thinking about how small and heavy it felt to still be here. By the time I logged up and stepped into the fading sunlight,

candlelight was already blooming in windows up and down Main Street.

Tiny flames flickered behind lace curtains and line porch railings,

glowing against the dark like cautious eyes.

That was just what people did here whenever the power failed. That was just what people did here whenever the power failed.

It didn't matter if it was a two-minute brownout or an overnight storm outage.

Candles came out fast.

No one ever explained it to me in words that made sense.

I just grew up knowing that when the lights went out, you lit a candle for them.

No one really said who they were.

No one wanted to.

I've always gone along with it, habit mostly, maybe a bit of fear too, if I'm honest, but nothing deeper than that.

Grandma was the believer. She would hum under a breath, low and tuneless, as she lit each

wick in the living room. Her hands would tremble as she moved from candle to candle,

whispering prayers I never fully understood.

The prayers meant to keep us safe, she said.

I used to watch her and wonder if she really believed in what she was doing,

or if believing was just easier than asking questions no one had answers for.

...