A CANDLE IN THE WIND
Emily Whitaker peeled off her latex gloves and surgical mask, tossing them into a metal basin before stepping out of the operating theatre, utterly exhausted. It had been one of those surgeries where life itself hung in the balance. The patient, George Harold Wilkes, an elderly man with a failing heart, had somehow survived the anaesthetic.
Now, all that remained was to wait.
Emily didn’t sleep that night. She lay on the narrow cot in the doctors’ lounge, staring at the ceiling. The white, cracked plaster seemed to pull her in, dragging her back to a past she’d buried deep inside. The fractures in the paint mirrored the fractures of her own history—her beginnings in a snowy little village called Bellcross in Yorkshire, where her adult life had once taken root.
She closed her eyes, and time rewound. She was nineteen again, standing before a crumbling church—an old, timber-framed building with soot-blackened walls and a bell hanging silently in the broken archway.
Fresh out of medical school, she’d been sent to the countryside. There, for the first time, she learned what it meant to live among silence, bitter frost, and indifference.
One day, on a whim, she stepped inside the church. It smelled of dust, cold, and melted wax. She lit a candle, hoping, just for a moment, to feel warmth.
“Something troubles you, my child?” came a voice behind her.
A young vicar stood there—Father William.
“Just passing through,” she replied with a forced smile.
After that, she visited often. Their conversations were long and quiet. He seemed to understand her—gentle, perceptive, as if he knew the shape of her soul.
One day, she whispered, “It’s my father’s birthday today. He was a soldier. Died in 1919, in York…”
She didn’t know it would be her undoing.
That night, pounding shook her door. Emily threw on her robe and opened it—and everything ended.
A search, shouting, accusations. Father William turned out to be an informant. He’d reported her for “subversive” talk.
They didn’t beat her immediately in the holding cell. First came the interrogation. The detective was short, balding, with tired eyes.
“Sit. I’m Geoffrey Arthur Lennox,” he said quietly. “Not all of us here are monsters. Though in times like these, a man is like a candle in the wind. The slightest gust—and he’s gone.”
He didn’t strike her. Only looked at her with pity.
“I can’t get you out, Emily. But I won’t let them send you to the camps. I’ll try for exile. Pray no one else takes an interest in your case.”
And so, she ended up in Bellcross.
A single road led there—straight as an arrow, buried in snow. The winter was merciless.
At first, no one would take her in. Exiles were shunned. She knocked on every door, only to hear “No!” or silence.
“You’ll find good people even here,” she remembered Lennox saying.
Only one door opened—Margaret, a young widow.
“Come in. But mind your step.”
Emily stayed. She worked the garden, treated villagers, cared for children and animals. Slowly, trust grew.
Two years passed. Every fortnight, she reported to the local council. The chairman, Thomas Edward Harris, signed her papers without a word.
In the third year, everything changed.
A blizzard raged at dusk when a sleigh pulled up outside. Harris burst in, covered in snow.
“My daughter’s dying. Help.”
Emily gathered her things. They raced to his home.
A girl of seven lay in bed, her face grey, cheeks hollow, barely breathing. A district nurse stood idly in the corner.
“Diphtheria,” she muttered.
“You have a scalpel?”
“It’ll be here in five hours.”
“In five hours, she’ll be dead,” Emily snapped. “I need a knife, a candle, and spirits.”
Harris rushed to gather what she needed. She sterilised the blade, made the cut—the abscess burst.
Pus and blood sprayed. The girl’s mother lunged at her, screaming, striking her face. Harris pulled his wife away.
Emily stayed the night at the girl’s bedside. By morning, little Grace was breathing easier. Within days, she was playing again.
Before Emily left, Grace’s mother approached her.
“Forgive me. I thought you… but you saved her. Take this.” She handed over a bag of food, a quilt, and embroidered pillowcases.
Harris visited often after that, bringing supplies, never demanding her signature again. Life had hardened him, but he wasn’t heartless.
A year and a half later, Emily returned to the city. She earned her doctorate, married, had two children.
Years passed.
One day, walking through town, she found herself before the same church. It was different now—clean, bright, cared for.
Inside, it was empty. A nun swept the floor.
“Could I see Father William?”
“He’s gone. Died in a car crash. Six years ago.”
Emily stared at the young vicar before her.
“Were you one of those he betrayed?” he asked.
She nodded.
“God does not forgive evil done in His house,” he murmured.
She lit a candle—for her father, for her youth, for the pain.
One day, an elderly man appeared in her clinic.
“Stomach cancer. Weak heart,” she read from his file. “Name: George Wilkes.”
She looked up—and froze. It was him. The detective.
“Emily?” Recognition flickered in his gaze. “It can’t be…”
They talked for hours. He told her he’d been denounced a year later. He’d served five years himself.
“What do you say, Doctor?”
“Your chances aren’t good, George. But we’ll try.”
That night, sleepless, she called the ward.
“How is Mr. Wilkes?”
“Stable. Sleeping,” the nurse replied.
Emily stepped onto the balcony. June air, pink-tinged sky, fading stars.
In that moment, she felt it—his candle still burned. And perhaps, it would burn a while longer yet.
