In a gusty winter gale that only dwarfed pine trees survive sat a tiny log cabin with a flickering light inside. As snowdrifts climbed the filmy windows, the aperture of a lone candle on a round wooden table grew smaller. Faded footsteps led from the cabin in the woods. Whomever they belonged to left the door ajar to twisters of snow skimming across creaky floorboards.
The white pillar stood burning - its tethered flame whipping sideways and backwards.
With each droplet from the wax hearth, the spine of the candle withered. Yet even absent witnesses it continued to light its keep. If the wind didn’t extinguish it stray snowflakes surely would. It was only a matter of time. Down shrank the candle until all that was left was the wick with walls of wax rubble. Out of fuel, out of time, the candle finally gave in. Extinguished not by snow or by wind, but by design.