No warning hum, no gradual fading: an instant darkness that engulfed the entire house. An almost physical darkness that oppresses your eyes and disorients you. The refrigerator ceased its low hum, the clock stopped, and even the faint glow of the nightlights went out.
For a moment, I stood there, trying to adjust.
Then I remembered the candles under my son’s bed.
I walked slowly down the hallway, guided only by my memories and the blurry outlines of furniture I’d passed thousands of times. The house seemed different in the darkness: bigger, quieter, so strange that the slightest noise seemed amplified. Each footstep echoed a little too long, as if the walls were listening.
Arriving in his room, I carefully knelt down beside the bed. The air was still and slightly dusty, like in those forgotten places where things accumulate over time: lost socks, broken toys, various objects that children insist on calling “important,” even without being able to explain why.
I reached under the bed, expecting to find candles.
Instead, my fingers brushed against something cold.
Hard plastic.
I removed it slowly.
