I found a metal sided star with sides of blood red glass, a lantern, buried in the dirt.

Inside it is a place for the tiniest of candles, a place so small I had to craft my own candle: first a mold, then melted wax, a wick. And then I poured.

It sat and set. I placed the light into to the lantern’s tiny heart.

Lit the light was so faint that it didn’t shine as brightly as a floating orb, a lumières fantômes, a feu-follet because of that red glass, because it was so tiny.

If it isn’t dark enough I cannot see the light, at all.

When it is truly dark, when there are no stars or moon or city lights it is enough.

Because when it is that dark, it has to be.

One clap, two clap, three clap, forty?

By clapping more or less, you can signal to us which stories really stand out.