The Weight of Smoke

The rain had been relentless all day. Like it always seemed to be in this city.
I’d spent the afternoon wrestling with spreadsheets and a boss who thinks ‘efficiency’ means shouting. Didn't feel like much of anything, really. Just…grey.
Then he showed up. Didn't say a word, just placed a single candle on the table – heavy glass, thick with smoke already curling upwards. The scent was pine and something else... warm vanilla?
I took the match from his hand, my fingers brushing against his briefly. It wasn’t a dramatic touch, not like in movies. Just…contact.
The flame caught, pushing back the shadows. He watched me, quiet as a falling leaf. I stared at the dancing light, letting it melt some of the ice around my heart.
It's funny how something so simple – a flickering candle and a shared silence – could feel like an anchor.
Like maybe, just maybe, there was still warmth to be found in this messy, rain-soaked city. And maybe he was it.

Editor: Alleyway Friend