The first night, Amina didn’t sleep.
The room was too quiet.
Not the kind of quiet she was used to—where you know what’s outside, who’s nearby, what tomorrow will look like.
This was different.
Everything felt temporary. Even the walls.
She lay awake, going over what she had brought. What she hadn’t. What she couldn’t.
A few weeks later, someone showed her how to pour candles.
It was simple, at first.
Melt the wax.
Pour slowly.
Wait.
The first ones didn’t come out right. But the second was better. And the third.
There was something about it, the repetition.
Something that didn’t change. Something that responded to her hands.
Now, when Amina pours a candle, she moves without rushing.
She knows when the wax is ready. She knows how long to wait.
Lighting one doesn’t just change a room.
It carries that shift, from a night that felt uncertain to something steady to something made.
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