By dusk the garden path had already learned to hush. Along the walk the ice lanterns handed each candle a tiny armchair. The flames greeted the snow, nodded to the gate, and only then shone far enough for one quiet step.
We asked at the kiosk by the square. "I thought the lanterns had gone shy," said the woman who sells matches. "They were only sitting down. A candle that rushes leaves the next lantern dim, and then the whole path looks as if it forgot the way home."
The next evening a sparrow came back and sat on the rim until one small flame had settled. After that the row glowed a little kinder, and nobody skipped ahead.