Something about candles had always spoken to Sylda. Something about the way they burned, ever so slowly, shedding light as they ate away at themselves. Drop by drop, hour by hour. A smile for one man. A cut purse for another. She was good enough. Fast enough. Luckier than most. You’ve a knack for this life, girl. Don’t waste your skill.
Sylda had always liked the idea of burning bright - of showing her best face to the world, even when the world didn’t want to see it. But some days, gods, she felt that burn. On those days, she would find a place to call her own. Somewhere cool and quiet, away from the press of the streets and the smell of dust. There, she would find the book her mother gave her, written in words she would never understand, and thumb gently through the pages. On those days, she would shed no light. The world didn’t get to see her face. But, once the guilt had settled and the burn had left, she learned to accept that part of herself. After all, an unlit candle was still a candle. She could be brighter tomorrow.