Work Text:
So many candles: five rows of ten.
Al paused, the burning match in his hand momentarily forgotten.
There would be a flame for each year of Sam's life. Maybe that was a sign.
Al lit the remaining candle, blew out and disposed of the match.
There would never be enough candles to represent all the lives Sam had touched, was touching.
Al wondered if Sam had touched any of the souls burning brightly before him.
One of the flames suddenly vanished, its wax solidified and filled up the cup as if by some miracle.
Al relit it.
"Happy Birthday, Sam."