The Candle That Burned in Both Worlds

I never believed in ghosts. Not until I lit a candle for my grandmother and heard her whisper my name.

The day she died, I was supposed to visit her. I had the flowers in hand, and a letter I wrote weeks ago but never posted. Guilt wrapped itself around my heart like ivy strangling brick. When I entered her home, it felt colder than it should’ve been. Her favorite candle, the one with the cinnamon-rose scent, stood untouched on the mantle.

That night, I lit it.

I didn’t expect anything. I just missed her. The room smelled like memory—sweet and warm—and for a few moments, I imagined she was there with me.

But as the flame flickered to life, the room changed. The air thickened. And in the hush of silence, I heard her voice—soft, cracked, and loving.

> “You came too late, child. But not all doors are closed.”



I froze.

Had I imagined it? Grief does strange things to the brain. But night after night, the voice returned with the candlelight.


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The First World: Mine

In my world—the world of the living—everything is noise. Phones, deadlines, traffic, endless scrolling. People love fast and forget faster.

I began returning to Grandma’s house every evening. Lit the candle. Spoke to her. And she replied.

At first, our conversations were brief—faint whispers that faded with the wind. But over time, the connection grew stronger. I could feel her presence like a warm shawl around my shoulders. I even smelled the rosewater lotion she always wore.

But she wasn’t the only one who came through.

As nights passed, other whispers followed. Names I didn’t recognize. Languages I didn’t speak. One night, the candle flickered blue, and I saw a man near the window—tall, shadowed, eyes hollow. He didn’t speak. But I felt his pain. Deep, ancient, and unresolved.

It was then I realized: the candle was not just a gateway to her—it was a beacon for all wandering souls.


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The Second World: Hers

I asked Grandma what this meant.

> “This candle wasn’t made for decoration,” she said one night.
“It was carved during a blood moon, sealed with truth, and soaked in memory. It connects souls—not all of them kind.”



She told me the candle had always been a family secret. Passed down from guardian to guardian. Not everyone could hear the voices, but those who could had a duty to listen—and to guide.

I was now next in line.

The more I used it, the deeper I slipped between the two worlds. I began dreaming in languages I didn’t know. Walking through unfamiliar streets lined with spirits. I saw children lost in the in-between, elderly souls clutching regrets, lovers waiting decades for closure.

The weight grew heavy. Some nights, I cried.

But something changed on the ninth night.

A woman came through the flame. Her outline shimmered like silk in the wind. Her voice was like a lullaby from a forgotten time. She told me her name was Miriam, and that she had died in childbirth over a century ago. Her baby never made it. Her soul was stuck in limbo, searching for closure that never came.

She held her hands out to me.

> “If I let go… will someone remember us?” she asked.



I nodded. And whispered her name into the candle’s flame.

The next morning, I felt lighter. As if a weight had been lifted from both of us.

That's when I knew: this was more than a haunting. It was a calling.


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The Choice

One night, she spoke with urgency.

> “They’re crossing. Too many. Too fast. The candle must be extinguished—or embraced.”



“What do you mean?” I asked, terrified.

> “Blow it out, and forget. Or take my place. Become the keeper. But know this—your life, as you know it, ends.”



I didn’t answer.

But deep down, I already knew.

Some people walk through life blind to magic. Some stumble into it. And some are chosen.


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The Final Flame

On the seventh night, the candle burned in both colors: gold for life, blue for death.

I looked around the room—photos flickered, walls pulsed. The air shimmered like a mirage. I saw Grandma near the mantle, her eyes proud, but sad.

I took a deep breath. And whispered, “I’m ready.”

As I touched the flame, it didn’t burn—it welcomed me.


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Every soul I guide adds a new whisper to my dreams. I’ve met warriors, poets, even children who died too soon. Their stories live within me. And sometimes, when I walk by strangers on the street, I feel echoes of spirits they've forgotten.

Now, I live between both worlds. I help lost souls cross. I listen. I guide. The candle still burns, but no longer alone.

It burns in me.