You'd never think I'd have a story. Well, I do. It's not the most interesting, I'll give you that. But life is just…life. And what comes will come.

I'm a candle, you see. A vanilla-scented one. The young mistress likes vanilla-scented candles. She adores them, in fact. She bought me on one of her shopping sprees after Christmas. Her money never lasts long.

You probably don't think that candles are alive. But they are. When a candle's flame is small, it doesn’t mean that there's too little wick or too much wax, it means that the candle isn't feeling well. The brighter and bigger the flame, the happier the candle.

I think the only one to ever guess that inanimate objects aren't inanimate is the young mistress' friend. She's smart, even if she doesn't think so.

Every item has a story to tell: the picture on the wall, the faucet, the pillow, even the showerhead. Though you wouldn't want to talk to one of those; they tend to have dirty minds.

And what about me, you ask. I don't have much to gossip about--the young mistress doesn't gossip--nor have I had any grand adventure--unless you count being moved from Cabinet A to Table B. I'm just a candle, after all.