By midmorning the candle shop smelled of beeswax and something softer, like a hallway rug. A row of new slippers, no bigger than apple seeds, waited on a saucer by the window. We asked at the kiosk next door, and the newspaper seller said the flames had been arriving early, practicing their little nods.
The chandler, Mrs. Purl, keeps the slippers in a matchbox lined with felt. “A wick is shy until it has something on its feet,” she told us, turning a stub so the light could see its new pair. The idea is simple: the flame walks the tabletop instead of skating, pauses at every cup, and only then settles into the wax as if it had been invited.
A note in the shop’s gratitude book, written very small, read: “Thank you for waiting. The cocoa was still hot.” By evening a teapot on the counter had a visitor of its own, and the next day a neighbor came back just to watch one spark wipe its feet before sitting down.