After an hour or so his grandfather stopped rocking, stood, and walked into the house. The screen door banged behind him loudly. Well, his grandfather said, good night. After a pause his grandfather asked if he was all right. Quickly, too quickly, Horace said yes, in a voice that was almost puzzled. His grandfather said nothing more, shuffling softly to his room, turning on no light. Horace heard the old man remove his clothes and get into his pajamas—he was sure they were the light-blue pajamas he wore in summer, the ones his aunts ironed with too much starch—and ease into bed. Then the light came on and he heard the rustle of paper, the onionskin pages of a book. He knew it was the Bible his grandfather kept on his nightstand, for that was the only book his grandfather ever read, save the Lady’s Birthday Almanac (which was really a magazine). Not long after the book went back on the nightstand, the light went out, and his grandfather sighed a long sigh, almost a sound of frustration. Once again there were only the other sounds, the natural, small music of the night.

He would not look at the clock—though, in truth, he had stolen a glance earlier to see if it was working. It was. So he just lay immobile, thinking of white ashes. At one point his grandfather rose to go to the bathroom. Sounds of the house, settling, sounds he once thought—and sometimes still thought—to be ghosts drifted in and out. But soon it was time, and five minutes before the alarm was to go off he rose, retrieved the candle from his drawer, and walked quietly out the front door.

The candle was a regular white affair, but he had placed it under the pulpit that past Sunday before the services and had snuck it out afterward, so he was confident it had been sufficiently blessed. Once outside he struck a match and lit the candle. Its light was weak, but intense enough to blind his dark-adjusted eyes. A breeze played with the flame and finally blew it out. He stuffed it into his pocket and went on about his task.