The seventeenth lamp was dying again.
Zara could tell by the way the flame guttered when she opened the glass—too much air in the line, somewhere. Her father would have known exactly where. He’d press his ear to the post like a doctor with a stethoscope, listening for the hiss that didn’t belong.
She didn’t have his ear. She had the route, and a pole, and the hours between dusk and dark.
The flame caught on her third try. She closed the glass and moved on.
This story continues for members of Vesper.