Willem the candle-maker lived alone in a workshop that smelled of beeswax and tallow. He made simple candles; no dyes, no scents, just clean flames that burned true through the darkest nights.

When plague came to the village, Willem gave his candles freely to the sick and dying, lighting their final hours without thought of payment. He did this for a fortnight before he caught the sickness himself and died in his workshop, a half-dipped candle still in his hand.

The villagers buried him and shuttered his workshop. But the following night, a light appeared in the window. Those brave enough to look inside saw candles burning on every surface—new candles, freshly made, though Willem was nowhere to be seen.

At first, people were frightened. Until a young boy dared to enter the silent house in order to acquire a candle for his sick mother. When the boy placed one of Willem’s candles at her bedside, her fevered dreams grew calmer.

After tale of the boys discovery, the rest of the villagers slowly began to acquire candles for themselves. And soon, due to the calming warmth of Willem’s mysterious candles, the survivors recovered quicker, the dying passed more peacefully, and those who sat in grief found their sorrow softened by the gentle, steady light.

Years later, the candles still appear, especially on nights when darkness weighs heaviest. They burn until dawn, then fade like morning stars. No one knows if Willem’s kindness can ever be exhausted, but the workshop door no longer frightens anyone.

Some lights refuse to die. Some kindnesses outlast the bodies that created them.