The hours of the following day crept past with a strange sweetness, as though the world itself had softened since his voice had returned. She still carried the ache of fear from the night of silence, but it was tempered now by relief, like a wound that no longer bled yet throbbed with memory. His whisper had returned to her, and that was enough.
She moved about her narrow prison with lighter steps, the crust of bread no longer tasteless, the cup of water almost refreshing. She caught herself humming, faint and tuneless, but it startled her all the same. It had been so long since she had allowed a sound of joy to escape her lips.
When the evening shadows lengthened and silence wrapped itself around the walls once more, she pressed her ear to the stone, her heart quick with anticipation.
And he was there.
"Are you with me?" his voice came, thin but steady.
"Always," she whispered, smiling as though he could see her. "And you?"
"Always."
They did not speak at once after that. There was a comfort in the stillness that followed, for silence no longer terrified her. It had been transformed into a vessel, carrying the weight of what they both understood: they were not alone.
After a while, he spoke again. "I dreamt of you," he said softly.
Her breath caught. "Tell me."
"In the dream," he continued, "you held a candle. The darkness pressed against us, heavy and endless, but the flame was steady. It burned, even when the wind howled, even when the shadows tried to smother it. And I followed it. I followed you."
Tears filled her eyes, though she smiled. "A candle," she whispered. "How small, yet how powerful."
"It was enough," he replied. "Enough to lead me through the dark. Enough to remind me that we are not lost."
She closed her eyes, holding the image tightly. "Then let that candle be us," she said. "Small, perhaps, but unyielding. A flame that no night can extinguish."
The silence that followed was warm, almost tender. She could almost feel his hand upon hers, though it was separated by stone.
Then, in a voice rough with exhaustion but fierce with conviction, he whispered, "We are the candle."
She pressed her lips to the wall, whispering her agreement. "Yes. We are the candle."
For hours that night, they spoke of light. Of dawn that must one day break, of stars that shone unseen above their prison, of fire that could warm and guide. It became their secret litany: not the catalogue of suffering, but of endurance. Not the lament of what was taken, but the hymn of what remained.
She told him of the first time she had noticed his eyes, how their quiet strength had spoken before words ever could. He told her of the courage he found in her voice, the way her whispers steadied him when despair clawed at his resolve. Each confession was another spark, another flicker of flame against the dark.
When her strength waned, she lay back, her hand still against the wall. "If ever I falter," she whispered, her voice soft with weariness, "remind me of the candle."
"You shall not falter," he replied, though his own voice shook. "But if you do, I will remind you. And if I falter, you will remind me."
"Yes," she breathed. "Always."
The silence that followed was no longer oppressive. It was sacred, like the hush that lingers after a prayer.
That night, she did not dream of chains or shadows. She dreamt of light—small, fragile, yet undefeated. A candle in the dark. Their candle.
And when she woke the next morning, though the walls were still the same and the world outside still cruel, her heart was different. For she carried within her a flame that no prison could smother.