The red candle stood alone.
No box.
No ribbon.
No match.
Just a heavy stillness around it, like the air didn't want to get too close.
It sat on the nightstand the way a loaded gun might.
Patient.
Powerful.
Permanent.
The note beside it hadn't moved.
"It's yours to carry."
Mason read it again. And again. And again.
It didn't change.
It didn't explain.
But it didn't need to.
He already understood.
This wasn't about survival anymore.
This was about becoming.
He left the candle untouched for two days.
Maybe three.
Time had gone vague again—warped at the edges.
He slept in brief windows. He woke to knocks that didn't exist. He walked through his own house like it wasn't really his anymore.
Because it wasn't.
The fire had left its mark.
He hadn't chosen it.
But he had answered it.
And now, it waited for his answer in return.
The world outside kept pretending to be normal.
Cars still passed his house.
Mail still came.
People still jogged.
But no one made eye contact anymore.
Not with him.
And not with the house.
Like they could smell something on him. Like he was carrying smoke no one else could see.
He walked to the end of the block once—just to see if he could.
He made it halfway before the pressure behind his eyes got too sharp.
He turned back.
The red candle was visible in the window when he returned.
He hadn't left it there.
At 3:14 a.m. the house spoke.
Not in words.
In symbols.
The bathroom mirror fogged without steam.
Three candles appeared in condensation.
One white. One black. One red.
And below them, a single phrase appeared in reverse:
ONLY ONE LIGHTS THE OTHERS.
Mason didn't sleep that night.
Not even in pieces.
He sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the candle across the room.
He didn't light it.
But he didn't look away either.
It felt like if he blinked, it would move.
Or worse—
Multiply.
By sunrise, he knew what the mirror meant.
The white flame was permission.
The black flame was passage.
The red?
The red was inheritance.
Only one flame lights the others.
But it wasn't about fire.
It was about intent.
The candle didn't care about survival.
It cared about what came next.
At noon, the phone rang again.
No number. No screen.
Just sound.
Mason picked it up slowly.
"Hello?"
A pause.
Then a voice he didn't know—but recognized in his bones.
Female. Calm.
"You've been seen."
"What?"
"You've been marked. The red candle is not your test. It's your tool."
"What for?"
"To choose what burns."
The line clicked.
He didn't leave the bed the rest of the day.
Didn't eat.
Didn't drink.
The red candle sat on the dresser now, though he hadn't moved it.
The house was changing again.
Not violently.
Subtly.
Walls stretched.
Doors creaked without opening.
The shadows didn't grow, but they stayed longer than they should have.
And always—always—the candle was near.
That night, he lit it.
Not out of bravery.
Out of exhaustion.
He struck the match he found beneath his pillow.
It flared hot and blue, nearly burning his fingertips.
He brought it to the red candle's wick.
It caught instantly.
But the flame wasn't red.
It was white.
And then—
Black.
And then—
Gone.
Not out.
Absorbed.
The wick glowed, not with fire, but with memory.
The candle pulsed once.
And Mason saw.
He saw Kasner.
Standing in a field of ash, a burned house behind him.
He saw Emily.
In the chair again—but this time, she was whispering to someone else.
He saw himself.
But older.
Standing in a room filled with strangers.
Each holding a candle.
Each waiting for his signal.
And when he opened his mouth—
They all lit at once.
He fell backward.
Hit the floor.
Eyes open, chest heaving.
The red candle still glowed.
Now soft.
Now warm.
The flame returned.
But it didn't burn anymore.
It beckoned.
Like a torch handed off.
Like a key passed forward.
And next to it—
A new match.
Carved with one word:
"TAKE"