Albie—The Candlelight Kingdom
The lights went out during dinner. Not loud. Just a tiny click—like the house had made a decision.
Everything stopped. The fridge hum. The ceiling fan. Even Sadie froze mid-chew.
Papa said, “Hold on,” and found the candles in the drawer. Matches scratched. Flames popped up—small, yellow, trying.
The candles smelled like birthday-cake wax—warm, sweet, a little smoky. Rock blinked twice from my pocket. Candle check complete.
Papa set one on the table. The little flame leaned left. Wobbly. New.
Nomi scooted closer. “Shadow time,” she said. She made her hand into a duck. The duck tried to eat my fork.
Sadie growled at the wall. Her own shadow growled back. She hid behind my chair.
Maximum Moo crawled under the table, his little stub tail thumping the floor. He barked once. Then barked at his own bark.
The darkness was bigger than usual, filling the corners it usually forgot.
Papa handed me the tall candle. “Put this one by the window,” he said.
I carried it slow, wax warming my thumb, and set it on the sill. The flame doubled in the glass—two lights now.
Rock peeked from my pocket, neck long and slow. He’s always checking.
We sat together—me, Nomi, the dogs, the candles—holding the room up.
Nomi whispered, “Look how bright they got.”
Outside, rain tapped the windows, polite and steady.
Papa told a story about when he was little and the power went out for hours. “We’d all end up at the same table,” he said. “Every time.”
It was dark all around. But the candles held. We stayed close.
Nomi stretched her hand toward the flame—not too close—just close enough for the warm part.
Rock blinked once. Slow. He approved.
Then the lights came back on all at once.
The candles looked weaker now, but still warm. The smoke kept that cake smell, softer now.
“That was a good outage,” Papa said.
We blew out the candles. Little trails of gray curled up—drifting, then gone.
The Candlelight Kingdom. Power optional. Warmth guaranteed.
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