The Light That Fed

November 6, 1871

Light bends toward me now.

Even the smallest flame in the house seems to bow — lanterns in the hallway, the oil lamp by the stair, the stove’s faint blue core. When I pass, they lean inward, stretching thin as though reaching for something they crave.

Before supper I went to replace the wicks in the lamps — Ma says the guests hate to eat by shadow — but every match I struck guttered out the instant I raised it. I tried again, whispering the verse for illumination, hoping for some comfort, some proof that I still held the words’ power. The light dimmed instead, shrinking until the room drowned in black.

Only the mark on my wrist remained visible, burning cold, blue as moonlight on snow.

That’s when I felt it. Not pain — not exactly. More like something drinking from me, patient and steady. It wasn’t blood it wanted. It was something finer. Warmth, memory, will. For an instant, my mind emptied — my name vanished from me, as though spoken too many times and worn thin.

When I woke, the candles had collapsed into black puddles, though none were lit.

The book no longer feels warm.

It feels hungry.