There was something almost religious about making candles. Becca dipped the candle into the bath of blue wax, then held it out as she counted to thirty in whispered breaths. You couldn’t hurry, making candles this way, you had to slow down and pace yourself to the wax. Dip. Pause. Dip. The rest of the world faded away to the corners and everything focused down to that heartbeat. Dip. Pause. Dip. She’d often wondered if this was what making the world felt like. Slow, steady, building layer on layer until you reached the point where you knew it was done. No fanfare, or bells, or timers, just the feeling of done.