**A Candle in the Wind**
Elizabeth Whitmore peeled off her latex gloves and surgical mask, dropping them into a stainless-steel basin before stepping out of the operating theatre, utterly drained. It had been one of those surgeries where life itself hung in the balance. The patient—George Rowland, an elderly man with a failing heart—had barely survived the anaesthetic.
Now, all they could do was wait…
Sleep eluded Elizabeth that night. She lay on the narrow cot in the on-call room, staring at the cracked plaster ceiling. The uneven white streaks seemed to pull her inward, dragging her back to the past she’d buried long ago. That peeling ceiling was no different from the memory she carried—the snowy village of Bramley Cross, tucked away in Yorkshire, where her adulthood had truly begun.
She closed her eyes, and suddenly, she was nineteen again. Standing before a crumbling parish church, its wooden frame blackened by time, its bell long silent in the empty archway.
Fresh out of medical school, she’d been assigned to the countryside. There, she learned what it meant to live in silence, bitter frost, and indifference.
She’d wandered into that church on instinct one day. The air inside smelled of dust, cold stone, and melted wax. She lit a candle, desperate for warmth.
“Troubled, love?” came a gentle voice behind her.
A young vicar stood there—Father Thomas.
“Just passing by,” she lied, forcing a smile.
After that, she visited often. Their conversations were long and quiet. He listened—really listened—as if he understood the shape of her soul.
One evening, she whispered, “Today’s my father’s birthday. He was a soldier. Died in 1918, at Ypres…”
She didn’t know those words would unravel everything.
That night, fists hammered at her door. She threw on a robe, opened it—and her world collapsed.
A search, shouts, accusations. Father Thomas had been an informant. He’d reported her for “anti-establishment” sentiments.
They didn’t beat her straightaway in the holding cell. First came the questioning. The investigator was a weary, balding man with tired eyes.
“Sit. I’m Arthur Bennett,” he murmured. “Not everyone here is a monster. Though these days—men are like candles in the wind. One gust, and they’re gone.”
He never raised a hand. Just looked at her with pity.
“I can’t free you, Lizzie. But I won’t let them send you to the camps. I’ll get you exiled instead. Pray no one else takes an interest.”
So she ended up in Bramley Cross.
The road there was arrow-straight, buried in snow. That winter was brutal.
No one would take her in—exiles were shunned. She knocked on every door, only to hear silence or a sharp “No!”
“You’ll find good people, even in Yorkshire,” Bennett had said.
Finally, one door opened. Margaret, a young widow.
“Come in. But behave yourself.”
Elizabeth stayed. She worked the garden, treated the sick, minded the children. Slowly, trust grew.
Two years passed. Fortnightly, she reported to the local council. The magistrate, Peter Hartley, signed her forms without a word.
Then, everything changed.
A blizzard raged one evening. A horse-drawn cart stopped outside. Hartley burst in, snow clinging to his coat.
“My daughter’s dying. Help.”
Elizabeth grabbed her kit. They raced to his home.
On the bed lay a girl of seven—grey-faced, barely breathing. The village doctor stood idle in the corner.
“Diphtheria,” she muttered.
“Do you have a scalpel?”
“Might get one in five hours.”
“She won’t last that long,” Elizabeth snapped. “Bring me a knife, a candle, and whisky.”
Hartley scrambled to obey. She sterilised the blade, slit the girl’s throat—the abscess burst.
Pus and blood sprayed. The child’s mother shrieked, striking Elizabeth before Hartley pulled her away.
Elizabeth stayed the night. By dawn, little Emma was breathing. Within days, she was playing.
Before leaving, the mother pressed a bundle into her hands—food, a knitted shawl, embroidered pillowcases.
“Forgive me. I thought you’d—but you saved her.”
Hartley visited often after, bringing supplies. No more signatures required. He wasn’t heartless—just hardened by life.
Eighteen months later, Elizabeth returned to London. Earned her doctorate, married, had two children.
Decades slipped by.
One day, she found herself outside that same church. Now, it gleamed—restored, bright.
Inside, a nun swept the floor.
“Is Father Thomas here?”
“Gone. A carriage accident—six years past.”
Elizabeth stared at the young priest now before her.
“Were you one of those he betrayed?”
She nodded.
“God does not forgive evil done in His house,” he said softly.
She lit a candle—for her father, for her youth, for all the pain.
Years later, an elderly man sat in her clinic.
“Stomach cancer. Weak heart,” she read. “Name: George Rowland.”
She looked up—and froze.
It was him. The investigator.
“Lizzie?” he rasped. “Can’t be…”
They talked for hours. He’d been denounced himself, served five years in prison.
“What’s the verdict, Doctor?”
“The odds aren’t good, Arthur. But we’ll try.”
That night, sleepless, she called the ward.
“How’s Rowland?”
“Resting. Stable,” the nurse replied.
Elizabeth stepped onto the balcony. June air, a pink-streaked dawn, fading stars.
And in that moment, she knew—his candle still burned. And perhaps, just perhaps, it would burn a while longer.
