The first thing people noticed about Thomas Harrison’s candles was the scent.

It wasn’t floral, nor herbal, nor anything so pedestrian as vanilla or spice. His shop, tucked between a shuttered tailor and a locksmith no one ever saw open, carried a fragrance that clung to the back of the throat; thick, intimate, almost sweet. Customers struggled to name it.

“Something… familiar,” they would murmur.

Mr Harrison would only smile.

He worked exclusively at night. Through the warped glass of his storefront window, a passersby sometimes glimpsed him bent over a wide iron pot, sleeves rolled high, his thin arms glistening in the amber light. The vat simmered slowly, patiently. He stirred with a wooden paddle worn smooth from long use.

The source of his finest material lay beneath the shop. The cellar door was hidden under a rug depicting a pale tree. Maple? Birchwood? Beneath it, stone steps spiraled down into a room much larger than the building suggested. Hooks lined the beams overhead. Heavy tables stood in neat rows. Blocks of pale substance rested on trays, carefully trimmed and sorted like butcher’s cuts.

Mr Harrison believed in sustainability.

He read the obituaries each morning with his cup of tea, circling names. The lonely. The unclaimed. Those whose funerals would be sparsely attended. He had arrangements, quiet ones, with certain men who asked no questions so long as the envelopes were thick.

The process required patience.

He would render the harvest slowly, humming to himself as it softened and surrendered to heat. Impurities rose to the surface. He skimmed them away with reverence. What remained was smooth, luminous, almost pearlescent when cooled.

Perfect for molding.

He prided himself on the texture. Animal fat smoked too harshly. Beeswax lacked depth. But this? This burned with a steady, unwavering flame. And the scent it released when lit was extraordinary. Warm. Comforting. Like skin after a bath. Like an embrace.

His best-selling line was called Remembrance.

Each candle bore a small handwritten label tied with twine. No two were exactly alike.

Some customers swore the candles made them dream vividly of people they had lost. Others claimed to feel watched while the flame flickered, as if something in the room had grown attentive.

One evening, a young woman entered the shop just before closing. She said she was looking for something special, something that would make her apartment feel less empty.

Mr Harrison studied her carefully. The healthy glow of her cheeks. The pulse fluttering gently at her throat.

He selected a candle from beneath the counter. “This one,” he said softly. “My finest blend.”

She lifted it to her nose and inhaled deeply.

For a moment, her expression shifted… confusion first, then a strange recognition. Her brow furrowed.

“It smells like…” she began.

But she couldn’t finish.

Because somewhere beneath the shop, under the floorboards and stone, a muffled knock sounded from the cellar door.

Just once.

Mr Harrison’s smile did not falter.

“The building settles,” he said gently. “Old foundations.”

The flame in the nearest candle stretched tall and thin, guttering toward her as if drawn by breath.

She hesitated only a second longer before reaching for her purse.

After all, the scent was comforting.

He watched her carefully place her paper-wrapped purchase into her handbag.

She looked up at him and smiled. The glow of her cheeks reflecting a rosy warmth in the soft candlelight.

She turned to leave.

Mr Harrison watched her shapely form head to the front door.

He was always in need of fresh inspiration.