nothing

She twirled the match around, like a sorcerer with a wand controlling the flame before it bit at her fingers. I imagined the smoke, now climbing in the air from the black head of scalded wood, was an old woman with long gray hair ever entwining behind her coal face. She proceeded to light the five candles, each rich vanilla. They were all below four inches high and would not last long. There was a blue candle of which I did not know the scent, with a glass frame to keep the wax from spilling. When she blew them out I put my finger in the milky wax. It burned for only a second until it dried into a round crust on my fingertip. I peeled it off to examine the perfect, smooth print inside the now hardened impression.