The Execution of the Flame

An insolent little birthday candle dared to flicker atop the polished brass saucer, casting trembling, optimistic whispers across the nocturnal gloom. Such fragile defiance could not stand upon my stage. I stalked forward on velvet pads, shadow looming like a ravenous beast against the dark wallpaper. Resting beside the tray lay an ornate, hollow metal thimble. Gripping the cold rim between pristine white gloves, I raised the dome high in breathless theatrical suspension. A cruel pause—and drop! The metal cap inverted directly over the doomed spark. A dying hiss of smoke curled past the edge, restoring absolute, suffocating dark.