Each year in the village of Wigden, people fall under winter’s spell. Citizens bundle up, stoke fireplaces, write cards, and give gifts.

Wigden has its own butcher, baker, and candlestick maker. The candlestick maker, Albrecht, lives in a tiny cottage and makes all kinds of candles from local beeswax. Each night, he lights a candle and places it in his window to help lost travelers and the night watchman find their way in the dark.

People say Albrecht’s candles are magical. Each one has a piece of paper at the bottom for customers to write a wish. When the candle burns down, the wish is said to come true.

A retired sailor once wished for a beautiful pet bird, and now he owns a pink cockatoo. Another woman desired grandchildren to spoil, and now she has six. The townsfolk hold him in high regard.

Despite the fame, he is introverted, accustomed to solitude among those wax pillars.

. . .

One day, close to Christmas, a young woman with brown hair and a shy face enters the shop. The candlemaker sees her and smiles.

“Oh, welcome to my store. What can I do for you?”

The woman smiles. “Thank you, sir. My name is Frieda, and I want to buy three bayberry tapers with holly leaves painted on them.”

“Ah, an excellent choice this season! I’ll get some right away.”

He disappears behind a curtain and returns with three white candles. Green leaves and red berries are painted around them. Frieda is in awe.

“Oh my, they’re more beautiful than I’d imagined!”

Albrecht beams. “Thank you, Miss Frieda. May I ask what brings you here? We get many visitors in winter.”

She rubs her bare fingers together. “I’m on a journey to meet my biological father. My relatives say he lives in this area.”

“Ah, a reunion. Why don’t you write it on paper, wrap it around the bottom, light its wick, and make a wish? It may come true.”

The young woman laughs. “That’s a wonderful idea. I’ve heard about your magic. Have you ever used it yourself?”

Suddenly, the old man’s face turns pale. He looks down at his boots and sighs.

“I tried it once, when I was young and foolish. My story is a sad one, but may I share it with you? It’s an important lesson.”

Frieda looks at him and nods.

“Years ago, my wife Gertrude and I traveled through mountain towns and sold candles. We were very poor. One day, she announced her pregnancy, which elated and frightened me. If we didn’t have enough money, how could two peasants provide for a growing child? My wife reassured me that as long as the child was healthy and happy, everything would work out.”

“Afterward, Gertrude gave birth to a girl, but it took a toll. A week later, she died, leaving me distraught. I didn’t blame the baby, and neither did dear Gertie. We both knew the risks of childbirth. Still, this new situation made me desperate. I felt my homemade goods weren’t enough.”

“One day, my lunch of barley soup attracted a petite crone, who said she was a hungry witch. We became friends when I shared my food. As a token of goodwill, she granted me the power to have my candles grant wishes. I tested it by asking for a silver grouse, and it appeared before me.

“Next, I wished for my daughter to be rich. As the candle burned, I saw visions of her future. A big house, fine clothes, and a wealthy man. But I noticed she wasn’t happy. Her house was lonely, her clothes were uncomfortable, and her husband was unkind. I tried again, but the visions were always the same.”

I realized no one should control another person’s fate. After leaving my daughter with the kind witch, I moved here and wished her well. I opened this shop to help people in ways that don’t harm anyone. My magic only grants good wishes, like luck, not wishes that force someone to love you. Most of what I earn goes to the child I left behind. I still wonder how she is doing.”

Frieda’s eyes filled with tears. “Thank you for telling your story. Now I would like to tell my own. I was raised by a kind matron who possesses magical powers. She taught me all her secrets, and I became a kind sorceress.  We live in a beautiful valley and make charms for townsfolk. One year ago, she told me about my father and that he lived in Wigden, so I came to visit him. I think I may have found him.”

To the candlemaker’s surprise, she takes a small candle from her pocket, snaps her fingers and it lights.

“I’m fine, Papa! I love you!” She smiles.

“My child!” Albrecht cries joyfully.

Editor: Lucy Cafiero