Age Old

White screens with clusters of paper flowers and white lattices line the many walls. Pools of cold white wax rest on the marble floor like tiny translucent islands, and above, in the spiraling woodwork that branches off the cieling, the crystal base of a candleholder sits suspended on its side, on two snow white curls, wave frozen in a riverline from its lip. The candle that had fallen lay crecked several feet away, leaving a trail of translucent circles in its path.
The room is delicate, with the soft sheen of ice hardened over water, ready to crack. She is not sure wants to know what is beneath it. There is something age old in the walls, some darkness punctuated with flickering flames, tamed in one moment, an inferno in the next. Heat on her hands, she is holding the flames. She looks down, seeing them empty in the daylight, dry and cracked, white spiderweb lines on her palm. There are no flames. There is no darkness.
The room is empty, save for her.

Text by Lucie MacAulay