Day Five.
Two days left.
Mason read the message on the window at dawn—just two faint words pressed into the fog, like a breath from something inside.
TWO DAYS.
He stared at it until the morning sun erased it like it had never existed.
But it had.
He didn't need reminders anymore. He could feel the deadline pulsing beneath his skin.
The candle hadn't moved.
Still in the center of the room. Still whole. Still unlit.
But different.
The wax looked more yellow than before. Like it had aged overnight. The wick had split slightly at the top, forming a tiny V. It looked like it had been burned and then reversed. Like time had tried something, then thought better of it.
He circled it all morning, never getting too close.
At one point, he whispered, "What do you want?"
And for the first time, the house whispered back.
Not in words.
In movement.
A gust of cold air passed through the hall—no windows open. No vents blowing. The curtains fluttered.
And the candle trembled.
He found the matchstick later.
It had been placed back in the box.
Neatly. Like it never left.
Only now it was half-burned.
Charred black along one edge.
Mason stared at it, horrified.
He hadn't used it.
No one had.
But the matchstick had a memory of flame now.
By afternoon, the dreams started to leak.
He wasn't even asleep.
Just sitting at the kitchen table when he blinked—
And opened his eyes in the hallway again.
The one from the dreams.
Black tile.
Fog above.
This time, the door wasn't marked EMILY'S ROOM.
It said:
MASON.
He stepped forward.
Each footfall echoed like a bell tolling underwater.
The door opened before he could touch it.
Inside: mirrors.
Dozens. Maybe hundreds.
All shaped like doors.
He walked past the first, and in it—he saw himself, younger. Thinner. High school maybe. Talking to Emily.
Laughing.
Then arguing.
Then walking away.
The reflection burned to ash.
He moved to the next mirror.
Saw himself at twenty-three, shouting into a phone.
His mother's funeral.
The mirror cracked.
Another.
And another.
Each one showing a different Mason.
A different regret.
A different flame.
Until finally, the last mirror reflected him now.
Tired.
Lost.
Holding the candle.
He wasn't moving in the reflection.
But the candle was lit.
He woke up screaming.
Face pressed into the kitchen floor.
Candle beside him.
Still unlit.
Matchstick on the table.
Still waiting.
The sun had set.
And someone was knocking on the back door.
The knocking continued.
Not loud. Not aggressive.
Polite.
Measured.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
Then a pause.
Then again.
Mason stayed on the kitchen floor, frozen, his back pressed against the cabinets. His heart beat so loudly he thought whoever was on the other side of the door could hear it.
After a while, the knocking stopped.
But he didn't get up.
Not for a long time.
When he finally stood, the door was open.
Not wide.
Just cracked.
Just enough for the cold air to bleed in.
He reached for it slowly.
Pulled it open with two fingers.
The porch was empty.
But something had been left there.
On the steps: a metal tin, small and round.
He picked it up, gingerly, like it might explode.
It was warm.
Inside—something black and soft.
Ash.
And something else, tucked just beneath it:
A folded piece of paper.
He unfolded it carefully.
One word.
REKINDLE
He sat at the table again, the tin of ash in front of him.
Next to it: the candle.
The matchstick.
The box.
It felt like an altar now.
Some strange ritual, unfolding without instruction, one piece at a time.
He turned the note over.
The other side had no words.
Only a rough circle, drawn in ash.
Inside it—an eye.
Drawn like a child might.
But somehow alive.
Watching.
He blinked and looked away.
When he looked back, the page was blank.
That night, the candle lit itself.
He was asleep on the couch when it happened.
He felt it before he saw it.
The heat.
Subtle. Gentle. Like a hand on his shoulder.
His eyes snapped open.
And there it was.
Flame.
Small.
Steady.
Silent.
The white candle burned with a strange orange glow—brighter than a normal flame. It didn't flicker in the draft. It didn't crackle.
It just burned.
Calm and perfect.
Mason didn't speak.
He just stared.
And then he saw the wax begin to drip.
Down the side.
Pooling onto the table.
Forming shapes.
Letters.
Words.
He watched as the wax bled a message into the wood grain below:
ONE DAY LEFT.
He ran to the sink.
Filled a glass with water.
Came back.
Tried to pour it over the flame.
But the water sizzled off before it even touched the wick.
The flame held strong.
Unaffected.
Like it wasn't burning wax at all.
Just time.
The matchstick vanished again.
He found the box open.
Empty.
The tin of ash was gone too.
In its place: a second candle.
Black.
Unlit.
Thicker than the white one.
Twice the size.
And wrapped in a red ribbon.
A note beneath it:
NEXT.
The candle burned all night.
Mason stayed up with it.
He watched it like it was going to speak, or move, or give him something—an explanation, a way out, anything.
But it didn't.
It just burned.
Slowly.
Silently.
And just before dawn, it went out.
All on its own.
No smoke.
No heat.
Just silence.
And the faint scent of roses.
He looked to the black candle.
Still unlit.
Still waiting.
At sunrise, the final message appeared.
Scrawled across his bathroom mirror, written in condensation:
TOMORROW.