Extinguish

Warm specks of light dot the wooden walls of the cabin. They move on their own, without a watch face or mirror or shard of glass to guide them. You asked Judith about them once, but she only shrugged and told you that you’d get used to the house, eventually. You haven’t yet, but you do wonder how long it will take.

Nothing shakes in the wind as it used to at the last house. Moonlight reveals that yes, it is windy outside. Yes, in the illuminated darkness, the trees are bending and snapping and there probably is a howl of some sort. Inside, there is no sign of the storm raging outside. It is dark and cold and quiet. The woodstove burned out hours ago, but you’re too cold to rise from your covers. Yet, the specks of yellow light dance around the walls. They remind you of the carelessness of that one summer -- too hot, too fleeting, too foreign for you to truly enjoy.

Hesitantly, you reach your hand out to the wall the specks are gathered on. They continue to bounce chaotically back and forth until one hits your hand. You feel its force. Brief and warm, like a hummingbird running into a leaf. Another one bounces off. Another. Another. Another. Finally, one hits your palm. You close your fingers quickly, and the ball of light begins harshly vibrating, but you don’t let go.

The room suddenly becomes a shade darker, and you notice the moonlight piled on the floor is slowly beginning to fade away. The vibration grows stronger. Your fingers tighten on the vibrating ball of light, curiosity getting the best of you. The light starts to fade from the trees, too. Everything outside of the rain-splattered window is slowly, slowly, growing dark. You keep your hand closed and pull it back under the comforter. Whatever you caused will have to wait until tomorrow.