Inspired by a well-known story - The Four Candles. Except... Darker.
The Four Flames (My Version)
In a forgotten hall beneath a peat‑dark hill,
four candles burned on a stone altar carved with knots older than memory.
Their flames swayed like restless spirits,
casting long shadows that whispered against the walls.
The first flame sputtered, thin and brittle.
“I was Peace,” it murmured,
“back when people still listened.
Now they sharpen their tongues like blades
and call it truth.”
With a final hiss, the flame folded inward
and died.
The second flame bent low,
its light trembling like a confession.
“I was Faith not holy, not sacred
just the simple trust between one soul and another.
But this land has learned to doubt everything,
even itself.”
A cold draft swept through,
and Faith vanished.
The third flame guttered,
its glow bruised and uneven.
“I was Love,” it said,
“but I’ve been twisted into currency,
measured, judged,
used as proof or punishment.
No wonder I fade.”
The wick glowed red, then blackened.
Darkness pooled in the corners of the hall,
thick as fog rolling off the moors.
The fourth candle alone remained lit
a small, stubborn ember refusing to bow.
Its voice was low, almost feral.
“They called me Hope,” it said,
“though lately I’m treated like a rumor,
a story told to children to keep them still.
But I endure.
Not for them
for the ones who still look for light
even when it hurts their eyes.”
The flame flared once,
casting a brief, fierce glow across the altar.
For a heartbeat, the room brightened
not with comfort,
but with warning.
Then the ember steadied,
dim but unbroken,
the last witness in a world
that had forgotten how to keep its own fires alive.
