Whiskers and the Candles: A Church Mouse’s Reflection
Whiskers had lived beneath the chancel steps of St Adwen’s Church (which is in the village of Advent near Camelford in the County of Cornwall) for many winters. He knew the creak of every pew, the scent of old hymnals, and the way the light fell through the stained glass just before evensong. But this All Souls felt… thinner.
Last year, the candles had come slowly. One by one, lit with trembling hands and whispered names. Whiskers had watched from his usual perch behind the organ pedal, where the dust was warm and the echoes kind. Each flame had seemed to carry a story - grief, love, memory - and the silence between names had been thick enough to nest in.
But this year, it was different.
The humans came forward all at once, bustling like squirrels before rain. Candles lit in clusters followed by names (already written on leaves of card), hung on the tree. The list was read in batches - no pause, no breath, just a few seconds hush between the names to hang the leaf. Whiskers twitched his whiskers in confusion. Where had the stillness gone? Where were the dimmed lights that let the candles blaze in glory?
He missed the old rhythm. The way the vicar used to kneel. The way Mrs. Penrose always lit two candles - one for her husband, one for the son she never spoke of. The way the silence used to stretch long enough for Whiskers to imagine heaven as a place of listening. The gentle words sung between each lot of names.
Now, it felt like a checklist. Efficient. Kind, yes - but hurried. The candles flickered, but they didn’t seem to speak.
Later that night, when the church was empty and the moon hung low over hillside, Whiskers scampered up to the tree of light. He sniffed the leaves. Names. Many names, but not as many as last year. He sat beneath them and listened - not to the humans, but to the memory that lingered in the card.
And he whispered, in mouse-language, the only prayer he knew:
Kindle a flame to lighten the dark,
And take all fear away.
The tree didn’t answer. But one candle, still flickering in the dark, gave a little sigh. And Whiskers knew that somewhere, the silence still held.
Whiskers had lived beneath the chancel steps of St Adwen’s Church (which is in the village of Advent near Camelford in the County of Cornwall) for many winters. He knew the creak of every pew, the scent of old hymnals, and the way the light fell through the stained glass just before evensong. But this All Souls felt… thinner.
Last year, the candles had come slowly. One by one, lit with trembling hands and whispered names. Whiskers had watched from his usual perch behind the organ pedal, where the dust was warm and the echoes kind. Each flame had seemed to carry a story - grief, love, memory - and the silence between names had been thick enough to nest in.
But this year, it was different.
The humans came forward all at once, bustling like squirrels before rain. Candles lit in clusters followed by names (already written on leaves of card), hung on the tree. The list was read in batches - no pause, no breath, just a few seconds hush between the names to hang the leaf. Whiskers twitched his whiskers in confusion. Where had the stillness gone? Where were the dimmed lights that let the candles blaze in glory?
He missed the old rhythm. The way the vicar used to kneel. The way Mrs. Penrose always lit two candles - one for her husband, one for the son she never spoke of. The way the silence used to stretch long enough for Whiskers to imagine heaven as a place of listening. The gentle words sung between each lot of names.
Now, it felt like a checklist. Efficient. Kind, yes - but hurried. The candles flickered, but they didn’t seem to speak.
Later that night, when the church was empty and the moon hung low over hillside, Whiskers scampered up to the tree of light. He sniffed the leaves. Names. Many names, but not as many as last year. He sat beneath them and listened - not to the humans, but to the memory that lingered in the card.
And he whispered, in mouse-language, the only prayer he knew:
Kindle a flame to lighten the dark,
And take all fear away.
The tree didn’t answer. But one candle, still flickering in the dark, gave a little sigh. And Whiskers knew that somewhere, the silence still held.
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