The Candle That Burned Out

The shop shouldn’t have existed.

It sat between a bookstore and an abandoned bakery, tucked away on a street that seemed even longer than it was. There was no sign on the door—just the faint scent of cinnamon and something old, something old.

I stepped inside, chasing nothing but a strange pull in my chest.

The shopkeeper looked as if she had been waiting for me.

The candle on the shelf

I don’t remember what the other things were—just that they faded into my vision like background noise. But the candle stood out.

It was small, in a glass jar sealed with wax and cotton. The tag hanging from the lid:

“Go with intention. One hour. No more.”

I picked it up and time felt slow. Not metaphorically. Literally. My watch ticks once every ten seconds.

“How much?” I asked.

She smiled. “Everything and nothing.”

I paid in cash. My hands shook.

What I wanted most.

That night I lit a candle. I was supposed to burn it for an hour—but I didn’t even know what “intention” meant. I didn’t make a wish or whisper.

Yet as the flame flickered, memories flooded my room. My father’s laughter. My mother’s voice before the accident. My little one on the swing set, fearless, free.

Time passed. It looped. I felt it all—every version of me, collapsed in one perfect moment.

I cried. And I didn’t blow out the candle.

First result

I wake up in the morning and see my phone malfunction, the screen stuck at 3:03 AM, my coffee was cold before I even touched the mug. The sun was at the same angle all afternoon.

Outside, people slowly moved away. Some didn’t move at all. The hanging leaves hung in mid-autumn. A bird paused in the sky like a still frame.

And in the mirror - my reflection went out of sync.

Warning

I was back in the street. The shop was gone.

In its place was a single note nailed to the wall, written in a handwriting that looked like mine:

“Time is not yours to catch up.”

I ran. But I couldn’t get past what I had changed. Every night, the candle burned itself out. The flame never burned out. I began to forget the order of the days. My body didn’t age. I stopped dreaming.

It seemed that even death had left me behind.

The Undoing

It took 33 days — if “days” still had any meaning — before I figured out what to do. I put the candle back in the jar, sealed it with wax, and buried it at the crossroads before midnight.

I whispered one thing:

“I accept the pain of time, if it means I can live.”

The next morning the sun rose. The wind picked up. The bird in the sky finally flew away.

I got old. I felt tired. And it was beautiful.

The Final Twist

Sometimes I pass by the street where the shop used to be. It’s not there — but sometimes, if I focus hard enough, I smell cinnamon. And once I saw the shopkeeper whispering to someone else in my dream:

“An hour. No more.”

I hope they’ll listen.

I didn’t.

And for that I carry time like a scar.