One candle’s flame dances lazily in the small kitchen. The kitchen is cramped, but the warm light makes it cozy, and both cooks have excellent memories of delicious smells spreading out from here all throughout the small, Swedish apartment.

In the living room is a woman with pink glasses and long black hair, sitting very comfortably in an uncomfortable position on a large green couch. She’s staring with a frown at the white walls. She imagines a pink lava lamp sitting on one of the near empty shelves on the walls, and the frown lessens a little. She then thinks about painting the walls blue and green, and the frown is gently turned into a smile.

In the other room is a man frantically plugging in every device and whispering every prayer he was taught as a child. He begs, pleads, bargains with higher powers for the lights to come back on.

Nothing happens.

He rests his head wearily against the white wall of the room, and hears small rasping sounds from the living room. Not long after, gentle, comforting smells waft their way underneath the door and into his room.

He stands up, opens the door, and sees all the candles he reluctantly bought and all the candles she excitedly bought, lit and arranged all around the living room. A little carousel that turns with the heat of a candle is spinning joyfully on the windowsill, and the woman with pink glasses and long black hair is lying on the couch staring intently at a book she has read six times now.

The candles are beautiful. Every flame seems overjoyed to be a part of this moment, the flames jumping and dancing with little crickles and crackles. The man’s face softens and he walks to the couch to sit with his partner. He puts an arm around her, darkness is never so depressing when she’s around.

All the cables and chargers are forgotten now, and the blizzard outside howls with rage. But inside the little apartment there is nothing but warmth and light, from an unlikely but undeniably beautiful source.

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