The flame flickered as it rose and  fell. A warm glow bathed a corner of the room where the candle stood, while the rest remained shrouded in an immense darkness.

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The only sounds other than the subtle crackle of the flame were shuffling of footsteps; an old man panting and wheezing as he carried glass bottles towards the candle. With a clink and with precision, he piled them on top of each other, higher, ever higher.

 

Onlookers at the windows these days called him mad, and a fool. But none knew the dangers more than him - some of those bottles would surely break, and the glass would cut his feet. But when he was done, the monument of glass would borrow the light from the candle and glimmer like countless gems, casting tales long-forgotten into every recess of the room. And that light would in turn illuminate the recesses of his own long-forgotten soul.