Back home, the apartment was still dark and silent. He struck a match—the sound sharp and satisfying—and lit the Library candle.

The change was instant. The harsh, geometric shadows softened. The flickering amber flame didn't just illuminate the room; it gave it a pulse. As the wax melted, he remembered the 3-hour rule he’d once heard—letting the pool reach the edges so it wouldn't tunnel. He sat on his sofa, watching the tiny gold heart of the flame dance.

He wasn't just waiting for the power to come back on anymore. He was finally, quietly, home.

"Candles," he said to the woman behind the counter. "Just the plain ones. White. For the light."