Sylvain Forest

Nancy walked the darkened hallway, holding her ladder with one hand and a small box in the other, though sometimes the latter was tucked into her white apron. Pulling her shoulders up, she lifted the ladder as well, unfolding it and climbing atop where she could strike her match and hold the burning end to the black wicks, which immediately brightened. She worked for several minutes before a door clicked behind her and she heard Genevieve’s voice, a soft muffle, and then there was the clinking of metal on the stone floor. She had come to sweep fallen embers from yesterday’s candles and leaves and dirt trapsed in by the day’s guests. The two worked together as the smell of burning wax wafted into the corridor, and then trailed away, as did the voices of the guests in a nearby room, roaring and their sounds fading in waves and on the same winds that rustled the flames.

On a table cleared of the day’s work, whether plates from the kitchen or cups from thirsty guests and workers or the manager’s planner, neatly stacked away in their proper places, their rests a candle, which alights the evening and brings a mood of rest, and smokes away into the evening’s repose when it is done .