Flicker by Dr. Suvajeet Duttaguptar
The antique shop was more of an afterthought, wedged between a newsagent and a burger shop. Its windows were grimy, and the bell above the door gave a mournful, solitary chime as I stepped inside. Dust motes danced in the lone shaft of light that cut through the gloom, illuminating shelves stacked with forgotten things. That’s where I saw it: a single, unlit candle, tucked away behind a chipped china doll. It was short, thick and purple colour, with what looked like tiny black specks caught in the wax. The air, thick with the scent of old paper and mould, seemed to shift around it, carrying a faint, peculiar odour of petrichor and… a profound, old sorrow.
That very evening, while the wind rattled against the windowpanes, I lit the candle, more out of curiosity than need. As the wick caught and a small, warm flame appeared, a strange heaviness settled in my chest, a cold weight that had nothing to do with the chilly flat. In the shifting light, I saw the faintest reflection of a person’s face, a tear streaming down their cheek, falling into what looked like a pool of molten light. A lump formed in my throat, and tears, hot and stinging, welled in my eyes for a grief that wasn't mine. A fleeting, almost-memory of a hand appeared, wrapped in a worn shawl, waving goodbye to an empty train platform. The sorrow was overwhelming, waves of regret lapping at my heart, that left me gasping.
Yet, even as it left me gasping, a part of me didn't want the feeling to end. I found myself drawn to it, an addict to a peculiar high of sadness. Every night, I would light the candle, and the visions would come. At first, they were fragmented and distant, a half-remembered look of hurt from someone I’d long forgotten. But as the wax melted, the visions became sharper, more personal. I began to recognise them: a friend’s tear-streaked face after a cruel joke I’d made, the palpable loneliness of a lover's flat just after I'd walked out without a word, the look of quiet disappointment on my father's face as I explained away another missed birthday. The visions were no longer distant.
The flame, once hopeful, now pulsed with a sinister light, and the scent of lavender was gone, replaced by something bitter and metallic. In a fit of panicked guilt, I extinguished the flame, and the torrent of emotions it had released instantly ceased. I tried to get rid of the candle, gripped it, meaning to hurl it into the bin, but my hand wouldn’t open.
For weeks after, a strange, hollow numbness consumed me. My heart felt like an empty room. When my grandfather passed away, I attended the funeral, but I couldn't feel anything. I wanted to cry, to mourn, to feel something — anything — but the tears wouldn't come. My sadness was gone, as if a ghost that had been exorcised by the candle, and the only way to get it back was to return to its wick.
I went back to the candle. As soon as I lit it, the tears came. They weren't the quiet welling of sorrow but a violent, racking sob that shook my entire body. I wept uncontrollably for all the pain I had seen, for all the pain I had caused. The grief was so intense it was physical, a tidal wave that crashed over me, leaving me exhausted. Eventually, I slumped forward, my head resting on the table, tears still streaming.
When I woke, the candle was a stub, its flame barely a point of light. The now cool, solid wax had flowed outwards, and my own tears had formed a small pool in the wax. The flame in the vision flickered, casting a reflection that was undeniably mine from a version of myself, older and greyer, sitting alone in a room, the familiar candle stub on a dusty shelf. I watched as the reflection reached out and extinguished the flame in front of me.
My own hand, trembling uncontrollably, now hovered over the wick. The visions, I realised... had shown the consequences of a life lived without staying to deal with the sorrow I caused. The tears weren't for the past, but for the loneliness that lay ahead. The candle maker had wept for my lonely death, and I was too late to see it.