The Candlemaker

The Candlemaker

A short story by Jane Amelia

The Candlemaker peered over the rows of fresh scents, new beginnings. His beloved candles. His shop consisted of hundreds of new stories, new fates, and new candles that would eventually burn out. Children would walk in curiously, always eager to test them out.

A frail girl, no older than ten, came in every day but Sunday. The Candlemaker always noticed her. There was something that set her apart from the rest. Maybe in the way she walked, her feet never dragging after the long day of school. Or maybe it was her hair, her beautiful locks that came so near to brushing the floor. Or maybe it was her confidence. After all, she was the only child brave enough to talk to the old Candlemaker.

“Any new candles?” She asked, just like she always did. The Candlemaker’s beard lifted with his smile as he led her into the back. He didn’t know her name, nor did she know his. They worked this way.

The Candlemaker didn’t talk all that often, acknowledging others with a series of grunts and nods. That didn’t bother the little girl. She’d always been comfortable filling the silence with whatever came to her mind.

“I liked the one from yesterday,” she said, still following him deeper into the back. It was quieter back there, and in the quiet was where he did his best crafting. “The nutmeg one.” The Candlemaker grunted in appreciation, so the girl continued.

“It was spicy, but also sorta sweet. Like cinnamon hot chocolate. Have you ever tried that?” The Candlemaker grunted a “no” and the girl continued. “It’s very good. My family gets it every Christmas Eve. Christmas Adam is when we get apple cider. Mom says it’s a tradition. Say, Candlemaker, do you have traditions?”

Another grunt, gruffer this time.

“Say Candlemaker, do you have a family?” Her sentence got cut off by the back candle room where they’d just arrived, filling her head with new questions.

“What candle is it?” The Candlemaker was known for making a new candle every day. Past ones were never once repeated. At the center of his desk, in a square jar, a label was hand crafted onto the candle. The calligraphy was round and curvy, and the thick lines were each hand-made by the Candlemaker himself. The label read, “Spiced Bourbon and Butterscotch.” He’d done it again, creating a new scent that no one had even thought of before.

The little girl ran up close and lifted it up. She stuck her nose in it, soaking in the butterscotch, pumpkin, coconut, toasted oak, bourbon, all the different scents and ideas being mixed into one.

“I like it,” she said simply. And the Candlemaker knew she did. She always liked his candles. The little girl brought a quarter each day to buy a candle. That was hardly enough for anything in the Candlemaker’s store, but he made her a special candle every day for that reason. Besides Sundays. Her candle was wide and short, hardly a half ounce. The container was shiny and metallic. It was cheap to make her something little, so he did it. The girl never realized she was the only one who got a mini candle. She figured that lots of kids went to the back with the Candlemaker, bringing quarters in exchange for candles.

The girl handed the Candlemaker her quarter. It looked brand new, all shined and ready to give away. The Candlemaker handed her the candle. She took a sniff of the mini one too. It brought a glint to her eyes that was similar to the Candlemaker’s. He’d always appreciated smelling something that brought a stream of dopamine. The girl did too, one thing that they had in common.

The Candlemaker walked her out from the back. He walked slower around her, letting her keep up with him as her legs were so short. She was barely four feet. He knew she’d grow soon, maybe in the Spring.

“Goodbye Candlemaker!” She ran out the shop door, the small bell at the top announcing her dismissal. The Candlemaker had one or two more customers the rest of the day, but he didn’t look up again from his register until it was time to close. There was nothing else to look forward to.

The Candlemaker did most things alone. He was a peculiar old man. This town that he lived in was small, most people knew each other, but no one knew much about the Candlemaker. He used to smile – most days in fact. His beard was shorter, his hair was done, his cheeks were red with delight. Now, parents walked quicker when passing his store, and he hardly said anything at all. When most families got ready for church on Sundays, curling their hair and putting on their suits – he didn’t. In fact, the Candlemaker hadn’t been seen at church for years now, at least ten.

His now old body was cruel and thin. He sat at dinner each night, eating for one. His cupboards were hardly full and consisted of bread and butter. He didn’t have much, but what he did have were his candles.

He didn’t trust anyone with his candles.

Except the little girl.

Maybe it was her eyes that held the same curiosity that the Candlemaker’s used to. Those brilliant hazel eyes that looked green only some days. She had those eyes.

The Candlemaker knew mostly everyone in town – the old folk that is. There weren't many of them left, but the ones that were left didn’t talk to him. Even his school friends erased him from their memories, pretending their world never had him in it. He didn’t mind much. He’d done the same for them. The little girl never saw the Candlemaker outside of the shop, he never left his shop. But if he did, she wouldn’t shy away from talking to him in the street. She never pretended that he didn’t exist. If she had, she would’ve stopped coming by now.

The Candlemaker worked on his candle for the next day, mixing in hints of sage, dew, and lilac. He’d colored it to be purple. The little girl had told him once that it was her favorite color. He melted the wax into the small metallic container for her. He made her candle every night right before he went to bed. It was his routine that made life feel even simpler than it already was for him. He was a candle, only getting a spark of fire when the little girl walked into his shop. Only, it was blown out as she left before the wax could begin to melt. He was living his life in a routine of unmelted wax, never letting it burn enough to create a divot in his candle.

The Candlemaker’s shop was completely bare the next day, which was normal. No one had even walked outside of it yet. He’d begun to wonder if it was a Sunday, the quietest day of the week. But it was Wednesday, he was sure of it. The little girl’s candle was waiting in the back for her, patiently. It was already ten past the usual time she came in. And she never forgot. She hadn’t forgotten a single day in three years.

The bell finally rang, an hour past her usual time. He lifted his gaze, eager to find the little girl. Instead, the shop was still empty. The door had simply been blown open from the Winter wind approaching as the weather was transitioning from November to December. The Candlemaker stood up, trying not to look too disappointed as he walked over to the door and shut it tightly.

He continued to wait.

But eventually, he had to close his shop.

The Candlemaker closed up at seven p.m. every night. Customers usually came in after school, not to buy anything just to simply smell each candle and put it back. But today, not a single customer came in. Not a single one had walked past his window either. It was almost as if the entire town had disappeared. It wouldn’t have made much of a difference to the Candlemaker if the little girl hadn’t been gone too.

Everything went back to normal the day after. Customers came in – still, very few – and many families walked past his window. It was a calmer day today. The winds had calmed down, finally holding their breath after gushing all of yesterday.

The little girl walked in like she almost always did. The Candlemaker looked up, but saw that she was hardly recognizable. Her smile was gone, clothes were plain unlike her usual loud colors. Her expression was dark and angry. The Candlemaker watched her feet as they dragged along the floor. She walked to the register, craning her neck up to look him in the eyes.

“Any new candles?” She asked in a bitter tone. She was speaking in a routine, barely registering anything going on around her. The Candlemaker grunted softly, and began walking to the back room. She followed him. They walked in silence. The only noise was the little girl’s shoes sweeping at the floor. The Candlemaker stopped when they reached the candle at the end. The girl looked at it, peering carefully at the beautiful purple swirls twisting around the glass. She didn’t step any closer than where the Candlemaker was standing. She didn’t run over to smell it, she didn’t say she liked it, she simply stood there.

It was strange to the Candlemaker, seeing her this disoriented. He didn’t know what to do. They were just standing there like two strangers meeting for the first time.

“Do you believe in heaven?” The Candlemaker turned to the sad voice. It flickered with hope, and teased of curiosity, but it didn’t sound like the little girl. It was sad and filled with deep remorse.

He didn’t know what to say. He wanted to say the right thing, to have the little girl return to how she used to be. He cleared his throat, trying to find his words. He usually didn’t talk after all, he hoped he hadn’t forgotten how.

“I believe in a life after death.” The little girl didn’t seem to appreciate his answer, and looked away from him and back at the candle.

“I don’t know about heaven anymore,” she said, her voice breaking. “It seems pretend.” The Candlemaker tried to agree, but something about her words caught him off guard. This wasn’t the little girl, she’d changed. This wasn’t her. Something had happened yesterday. He just knew it.

“I can assure you that it isn't.” The Candlemaker tried to make his voice soft, a rare occurrence from him.

“Why don’t you go to church anymore?” The little girl faced him again. The same glint she got when she smelled his candles was back – but set in a sad tone. “The other kids say you used to.”

“It’s true, I did.” The Candlemaker realized this was his first conversation with someone in a long while. He hadn’t had one like this in over ten years. He didn’t want to mess it up. “I didn’t feel invited anymore.”

“Why not?” Her voice was beginning to break so much, it hurt him. She was too young to be feeling this much. He wanted to know what happened – why her voice was two seconds from shattering.

The Candlemaker had never told anyone why he left – no one had ever asked. Maybe it was when his daughter left him all those years ago. He never got a note, never got a kiss goodbye, she’d packed her bags and left him for a different life. He’d stopped her from ending up with a man not right for her. He always wondered if she left for him. He’d been angry. When she called him trying to explain herself, he wouldn’t listen. The anger that had filled up his heart clouded all of the sorrow he’d felt missing his only daughter.

“It doesn’t matter why.”

He stayed inside his shop all day, scared to go out. If he went out, he could see his daughter. He knew she hadn’t left town, this town wasn’t the kind of place someone could leave. She still went to the same church she’d always gone to. She had a whole life that he wasn’t a part of. A family. He didn’t want to be reminded of the ways he wasn’t a part of it. So he’d stopped going. He limited the contact between him and his daughter in any way possible. That was over ten years ago. He hadn’t spoken to his daughter in ten years.

“Maybe you’ll see me here on Sunday," the little girl said somberly, in an all too familiar tone.

This wasn’t right. No. The Candlemaker knew it wasn’t.

“Why aren’t you going to church?”

“Because what’s the point anymore.”

“You have to go to church.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re a kid. And that’s what kids do.”

“Not me.” She huffed, her face beginning to puff up. “And you can’t tell me what to do.”

“What would your mother say?” The little girl stopped. Her face went cold, all the color draining from it as if she’d seen a ghost. She started breathing, quickly. Her eyes were widening in fear and panic – she seemed as if she didn’t know what to do.

The little girl kicked the Candlemaker – hard – in the ankle. He winced, and fell over, moaning in pain. The panic rose back in her expression and she fled, leaving the store with no explanation.

Pain was still throbbing throughout his leg, but he stood up. The Candlemaker tried to piece together what had just happened with the little girl. His head was spinning though and he needed to sit down. He turned his head in realization though as he saw the girl’s small candle still sitting on his desk. He sighed, leaving it be. She was already gone and he didn’t know if she’d ever come back.

The Candlemaker made his way back to his register. His store had much more customers than usual – but he didn’t pay it any mind. He didn’t even seem to notice when every customer there bought a candle. Rarely, he’d sell one or two. But today, he’d sold over thirty just in one sitting. It wasn’t until he said one of his old friends from high school that he began to question things.

“Marvin?” The Candlemaker said when Marvin began approaching the register. Not only was he in his shop, but he was buying a candle too. Something was going on, he just knew it.

“That’s me.”

“What are you doing here?” This was the Candlemaker’s second conversation of the day, things were strange now. Something was different. The town felt different, like it was mourning. It was extra quiet which made the Candlemaker’s nerves only go up.

“I thought you would’ve heard by now.” The Candlemaker didn’t ask what the news was, he let Marvin continue in his own time. Based on his cold expression, it wasn’t the kind of news that he wanted to share. It was sorrowful. The kind of news that could break down a man.

“I- It’s…” He looked down, clearly not wanting to meet the Candlemaker’s eyes. “It’s Miriam.” The Candlemaker stopped. That name. He hadn’t wanted to hear that name ever again, but now that he had, he wanted to hear it over and over and over again until it tore him apart.

“What happened to her?” Marvin kept looking down, avoiding the Candlemaker’s gaze. He didn’t understand how important this was. How much the Candlemaker needed to know. He reached out, grabbing Marvin’s shoulders and forcing his gaze towards him.

“What happened to my daughter?” The Candlemaker was gritting through his teeth now, emotions that he’d tried too hard to block out for so many years suddenly pouring out of him.

“I’m sorry,” Marvin said, barely a whisper. His eyes were wide with fear, fear of telling the Candlemaker what happened. “I’m so, so sorry.”

“Please. Tell me.” Marvin nodded, looking down. He didn’t want to be the one to do it – but he had to.

“Miriam, she–” He cleared his throat a final time. “She’s gone.”

It was at that moment that the Candlemaker finally understood.

He didn’t wait to help the rest of the customers. The Candlemaker left, practically running as fast as his hurt leg would let him. He had to find her, the little girl. His little granddaughter.

Her eyes, her gaze, her hair, it all belonged to him. She’d been right in front of his eyes this entire time and he’d never even realized it. Miriam had never stopped trying to keep in contact with her dad. Her last message to him – ten years ago – was the last thing she’d ever say to him again.

I know you probably won’t see this, but your first granddaughter was born today. Eight pounds, 6 oz, a beautiful blonde haired hazel-eyed girl. She looks so much like the photos of you when you were younger, the resemblance is remarkable. I hope you meet her one day. I love you Dad, and this little girl will too. We’re naming her June, June Thomas. You may never understand why I did what I did, but it was for her – this little girl. She was worth all of it and you will understand that too one day. I miss you, please come home.

The Candlemaker was still trying to run. The town was small and her house wasn’t far. He was limping slightly, and was out of breath completely, but the adrenaline carried him through. It took him thirty minutes or so to finally see the house his daughter had lived in. It was a dull blue that made it stand out from the other houses. It was isolated and put on its own pedestal at the top of the hill. He’d known it was hers from the address she’d sent him so many years ago, begging him to visit. He’d ignored it, but kept it just in case. It was put to good use today.

The Candlemaker ran the final stretch with tears streaming from his eyes. His blurry vision blocked out the sign in the yard that said For Sale. He ran all the way up the steps to the front door, not hesitating to knock right as he approached it.

Miriam’s husband knew how much the Candlemaker disliked him, and the feeling was mutual. He only hoped that they could see past that for June. For his little girl, June. The little girl.

No one had answered the door, and the Candlemaker decided to knock again. Still no reply. He’d gotten impatient enough to the point where he was ready to just walk in – so he did.

The house seemed quiet, no signs of anyone living here. The Candlemaker walked throughout the house, surveying the life he’d chosen to miss out on based on past arguments. The entire life he’d missed because of his stubbornness. He’d never forgive himself for it – now that Miriam was gone for good.

He walked through the kitchen, thinking of all the family dinners he could’ve come to on Sunday nights when the food tasted better because of how lazy they’d been throughout the day. He walked through the living room thinking of the movie nights that they’d had that the Candlemaker could’ve come to watch with them too, laughing along to the comedies and crying in the melodramas. He walked through the art rooms, thinking of the crafts that June got taught – the entire childhood she’d gone through without him there, without knowing he could’ve been there for her. He wondered if she knew this entire time who he was and why she never told him. He wondered a lot of things while roaming throughout the house, but the biggest thing he wondered was where they were?

The Candlemaker found his way to June’s room, opening the door softly and staring at the decorations flooding it. There were purple flowers, pink notebooks, white flowery curtains, a room suited perfectly for a ten year old. He wondered if Miriam had decorated it herself – she always did have an eye for how to make a plain thing seem beautiful.

The Candlemaker walked over to her desk after seeing something that caught his eye. It was the candles. All of them. Her little candles that he’d been giving her for so long. They filled every one of her desk drawers and covered her desk. There was one thing on her desk that wasn’t covered though, a small note. The Candlemaker observed it, picking it up curiously. He always had been curious – especially when it came to the little girl. Now that he knew that she was his granddaughter, he wanted to know everything about her – down to the very last detail.

He turned it over to the back of the envelope and stared at the scribbly words on the cover, seemingly written in a hurry: To the Candlemaker

Nervously, he turned it back over to the front and opened it carefully – preserving the envelope the best he could. With old age, his hands always shook, but now they were shaking like none before. He couldn’t help but be worried of the anger she’d unleash on him like at the shop. She’d kicked him, and it had hurt, but it didn’t hurt as much as knowing he’d hurt her.

When he finally got the envelope unsealed, the Candlemaker lifted the lined sheet of paper out of the envelope and kept it closed for a moment longer. The Candlemaker didn’t talk to God all that often anymore, but he said a quick prayer for comfort. He needed it. The Candlemaker began to read.

Dear Mr. Candlemaker. In case you haven’t figured it out, I am your granddaughter, proud daughter of Miriam Thomas. She doesn’t talk about you all that often so I kind of had to figure out some stuff on my own. Here’s what I knew though:

1. You own a candle shop on Kimberly Street

And that’s it. I wish I’d had more to work off of but I had to figure out some things for myself, so I started going to your shop every day – besides Sundays of course. I brought a quarter from my piggybank just as an excuse to see you and talk to you, even if you wouldn’t say much. I didn’t mind. Sorry that my rooms a mess, Dad says now that Mom’s gone we have to leave. We had to go so suddenly, I think Dad feels out of place now that Mom’s gone. The town isn’t the same without her. I don’t know where we’re going but it sounds like he wants to go far. I’m sorry that we can’t bring you with us. I wish we could. I took as many candles as I could fit without Dad asking questions. He never liked the idea of me hanging around you. The rest of the candles I left here for you – hopefully you can put them to better use than I did. Don’t be offended that I never used your candles. Mom says I have anosmia, so I could never smell all that well anyways. But getting your candles was the only way I knew how to talk to you so I hope you understand that. I hope that you keep making candles and I’m sorry about what happened with you and Mom. She really loved you. I do too, even if you’re mad at me. I never told you who I really was because I was scared of you being mad. I didn’t know if me being your granddaughter would anger you and if it does then I’m sorry. I love you anyways though.

With kisses,

June Thomas.

P.S. I’m sorry about kicking you I bet it hurt real bad

The Candlemaker had heavy drops of sadness rolling down his face. He couldn’t stop sobbing enough to take a breath of air. How was he supposed to go through the rest of his life not knowing where his granddaughter was, the only piece he had left of Miriam? The Candlemaker continued to quietly sob in June’s room, soaking in every piece of her he could. When he found his breath, he grabbed a bag and began shoving the mini candles into it, every last one.

This time, on the way home, he didn’t run. He walked slowly, admiring each room once again before leaving. Eventually getting into his shop, he surveyed the store. His customers were gone, and a pile of cash and notes were left on the counter, neighbors leaving post-its that they’ll pay him back for the candles they’d gotten. He didn’t care that much.

The Candlemaker went into his back room and put the bag of June’s candles next to a large jar he had hidden by his favorite selection of candles. The jar was filled to the brim with quarters. Each day that June came into his store, a new one was added to the collection. He never thought he’d value a quarter so much until he had this bowl in front of him now. These were Miriam’s quarters. A piece of her, and of June.

Maybe one day, he’d find June again. She’d be eighteen, going off to college soon, with great things ahead of her. Her hair would still be long, reaching her waist at least. She’d run to his arms and he’d try his best to pick her up even with his crippling knees and weak arms. He would still do it though, and pretend that it didn’t hurt. He’d bring her a candle and sing for her, Miriam had always loved it when he sang for her. They’d tell stories of their adventures, though she’d say more than he would. She’d find a husband who was nowhere close to being good enough for her, but the Candlemaker wouldn’t care as long as he loved her the way she deserved to be loved. This little girl would go on to discover new things and keep chasing wild dreams, while never letting fear rain on her beliefs of heaven and God. June was going to grow up, and her candle would grow to be even more remarkable than the Candlemaker could ever imagine. Life could’ve been much different if he’d tried to reconnect with Miriam, and he could’ve been a part of her life along with June’s. But even if he wasn’t the maker of this candle, she could still shine just as bright.