On a dark March night, a light ignited. It wasn't like a fireplace fire, it didn't burn to give warmth; it was merely a sigh of methane gas and ancient magic, a pale flame that floated weightlessly, cold to the touch, wandering by nature. It didn't know what hunger or fatigue was, its destiny was to wander joyfully, free and solitary.
It amused itself by making those who witnessed it doubt whether what they saw was a star or an illusion; it caused awe and fear, but there was one thing it lacked: permanence.

"Why don't you go out?" asked the flame, circling it like a curious firefly.
"Because someone might need clarity or warmth," replied the ember with its soft, crackling voice.

The cold fire had never thought of "need." They talked for hours. One told stories of mists and myth; the other of outstretched hands and cold winters. The wind blew harder, and the ember began to fade. On impulse, the fire descended and enveloped the ember with its cold light.
And then something happened that time had never seen. The ember did not go out, and the fire did not vanish. A perfect symbiosis. A new flame was born, small and firm, inviting you to dream and enveloping you.
This is the truth: the proof of this is the candle you hold in your hands. We, the seekers of magic, collect these spirits in small glass jars. Each candle tells its own story.

Now that you know the secret... Which ones will you choose to accompany you?