The Candle That Refused the Dark

Chapter 3: The Golden Side

 The moment James Carter stepped through the second door, the cold concrete smell of the Skeleton Tower vanished.

He didn’t fall.  

He didn’t stumble.  

The transition was surgical: one heartbeat in darkness, the next in light so warm and honey-coloured it felt like someone had poured late-afternoon sunshine directly into his lungs.

He stood on cobblestones that gleamed as though freshly washed.  

Not the uneven, oil-stained stones of old Covent Garden or Brick Lane.  

These were perfect—smooth, pale gold, laid in a perfect herringbone pattern that stretched away in every direction.  

Above him, the sky was the deep, endless blue of a clear September evening, no clouds, no red scar, no bruise of coming storm.  

Streetlamps—actual Victorian-style ones with frosted glass globes—glowed softly, their light the exact colour of strong tea with milk.

He turned slowly.

No Canary Wharf towers.  

No glass-and-steel monoliths stabbing the sky.  

Instead, low Georgian terraces rose on either side of the wide street, their brick the warm terracotta of fresh-baked bread.  

Sash windows glowed behind lace curtains.  

Window boxes overflowed with ivy and late roses that had no business blooming in January.  

A bicycle leaned against a black iron railing, basket full of fresh baguettes and wildflowers.  

Somewhere nearby, someone was playing a violin—Vivaldi, the Spring concerto, the notes floating down like petals.

James looked down at himself.

His coat was dry.  

The rain had never touched it.  

His boots were clean.  

Even the scuff marks from years of London pavements were gone.

He touched his face.  

No stubble.  

The skin felt softer, younger.

He exhaled and saw no fog.

Because the air was warm.

Twenty-one degrees, maybe twenty-two.  

The kind of temperature London pretends it gets in May.

A soft laugh escaped him—half disbelief, half relief.

Then he heard footsteps.

Light, unhurried.

A woman rounded the corner ahead.

She was perhaps thirty-five, dark hair pulled into a loose bun, wearing a cream wool coat that looked expensive without trying.  

She carried a canvas tote over one shoulder and a takeaway coffee cup in the other hand.  

When she saw James, she stopped.

Her smile was instant, unguarded, the smile of someone who recognises a friend they’ve been expecting.

“James?” she said.  

Her voice had the soft edges of someone who’d grown up in the Home Counties but spent enough time in London to round the vowels.  

“You’re early. I thought the train wasn’t due till half-seven.”

He stared.

It was Ellie.

Not the Ellie he remembered from the last video call three years ago—tired, guarded, the corners of her eyes etched with the same quiet disappointment he carried.  

This Ellie looked… rested.  

Her eyes were bright.  

There were laugh lines instead of worry lines.

She tilted her head, smile faltering just a fraction.  

“You okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

James opened his mouth.  

Closed it.  

Tried again.

“Ellie?”

She laughed—light, easy.  

“Who else would it be, you idiot? Come on, Mum’s already got the roast in. She’ll murder us both if we’re late again.”

She reached out and took his hand.

Her fingers were warm.

Real.

James let her pull him forward because his legs had forgotten how to work on their own.

They walked together down the golden street.

The name of the road appeared on a black-and-white enamel sign:  

**Larkspur Mews, W1**

But this wasn’t Mayfair as he knew it.  

This was Mayfair if someone had taken the money out of the bankers and put it back into the flowers, the music, the people smiling at strangers.

Every window they passed showed domestic scenes that belonged in a Christmas advert that never quite gets made:  

A family setting a long table.  

A man reading a physical newspaper while a cat slept on his lap.  

A teenage girl practising cello, bow moving with easy grace.

No phones in anyone’s hands.  

No scrolling.  

No hunched shoulders against the wind that never came.

Ellie chatted as they walked.

“You’ll never guess who Mum invited tonight. Remember Professor Langdon? The one who used to teach Dad’s old seminar group? He’s finally retired. Apparently he’s writing a book about Victorian spiritualism and wants your opinion on the photographs.”

James managed a weak nod.

His brain was still trying to catch up.

This was the other side.

The reflection had been telling the truth.

A better London.

A kinder one.

They turned another corner and the street opened into a small square.  

A fountain stood in the centre—three bronze children laughing as water poured from an upturned umbrella they held between them.  

Around the fountain, wooden benches.  

On one bench sat an old man feeding pigeons.  

On another, two women in their seventies shared a thermos of tea and a plate of biscuits.

Ellie squeezed his hand.

“You’re quiet,” she said.  

“Long day?”

“Something like that,” he managed.

She studied his face.

“You sure you’re alright? You look… I don’t know. Like you’ve been crying.”

He blinked hard.

He hadn’t realised.

The tears were there, hot and sudden.

He wiped them away with the back of his sleeve.

Ellie stopped walking.

She turned him to face her.

“Hey,” she said softly.  

“Talk to me.”

James looked at his sister—really looked.

This version of her had never received the phone call about the M25.  

Never sat in a hospital corridor smelling of disinfectant and grief.  

Never had to learn how to speak to her only remaining family member through a screen because the distance hurt less than the silences.

She was happy.

She was whole.

And she was looking at him like he was the most important person in her world.

“I missed you,” he whispered.

Ellie’s brow furrowed.

“I saw you last weekend, you muppet. At the farmers’ market in Marylebone. You bought me those ridiculous salted-caramel brownies and then complained the whole way home that they were too sweet.”

James laughed—a cracked, painful sound.

“Right. Of course.”

She searched his face a moment longer, then sighed and looped her arm through his.

“Come on. Roast potatoes wait for no man. And Dad’s already threatened to start without us if we’re late again.”

Dad.

The word hit like a punch to the solar plexus.

He let her lead him.

They crossed the square and entered a narrow mews house—number 17.  

The door was painted sage green, a brass knocker shaped like a fox’s head.  

A wreath of winter berries and eucalyptus hung above it.

Inside, the smell hit him first:  

Roast beef, rosemary, red wine gravy, fresh bread, candle wax, and the faint, comforting undertone of old books.

Voices drifted from deeper in the house.

“…told him the exposure was all wrong, but you know how he gets when he’s got an idea in his head…”

Laughter—warm, overlapping.

Ellie kicked off her boots in the hall.

“Shoes off, Jamie. You know Mum’s rules.”

He obeyed automatically.

The hallway was narrow, lined with black-and-white photographs in simple frames.  

Family holidays.  

Graduations.  

Weddings.  

A picture of him and Ellie at the beach—maybe Cornwall—both of them maybe twelve and ten, arms slung around each other’s shoulders, grinning into a sunset.

He didn’t remember the photo being taken.

Because it had never happened.

Not in his London.

They walked through to the dining room.

And there they were.

Mum at the head of the table, hair still dark (only the faintest silver at the temples), wearing a soft green jumper and laughing at something Dad had said.  

Dad—tall, broad-shouldered, the same scar above his eyebrow that James had inherited—carving the joint with the same steady hands James remembered from childhood Sunday lunches.

They both looked up as James entered.

Mum’s face lit up.

“There he is! Late as usual. I should’ve known.”

Dad grinned, knife paused mid-cut.

“Thought you’d got lost in one of those abandoned buildings again, son. Still chasing shadows for that camera of yours?”

James couldn’t speak.

He just stood there, throat closed, eyes burning.

Mum stood and crossed the room.

She hugged him—tight, fierce, the way she used to when he was small and the world had frightened him.

“You’re shaking,” she murmured against his shoulder.  

“What’s wrong, love?”

He buried his face in her jumper.

It smelled of lavender and home.

“Nothing,” he lied.  

“I’m just… glad to be here.”

She pulled back, cupped his face in both hands.

“You’re always here, Jamie. We’re not going anywhere.”

Dinner passed in a warm blur.

Roast beef cooked exactly the way Dad used to do it—pink in the middle, crisp on the outside.  

Yorkshire puddings that rose like golden clouds.  

Gravy thick enough to stand a spoon in.  

Red wine poured generously.  

Conversation that flowed without effort:  

Professor Langdon’s book.  

Ellie’s new project at the gallery.  

Mum’s plans for the garden in spring.  

Dad’s terrible jokes.

James ate slowly, tasting everything twice.

Every bite felt like a gift.

Every laugh felt stolen.

After pudding—sticky toffee, warm custard—he excused himself to the bathroom.

He needed air.

He needed to breathe.

Upstairs, the bathroom was small, tiled in soft sage and cream.  

A skylight above the bath showed stars—real stars, not the anaemic pinpricks that fought through London light pollution.

He leaned on the sink and stared at his reflection.

Still thirty-two.

Still the same face.

But the eyes were different.

Less haunted.

He ran the tap, splashed cold water on his face.

Then he heard it.

A low, distant rumble.

Not thunder.

Something deeper.

Like the city itself clearing its throat.

He froze.

The rumble came again—longer this time.

The mirror flickered.

For half a second—just a heartbeat—the reflection wasn’t him.

It was the other version.  

The one from the room beneath the tower.  

The one with the too-perfect smile.

It looked straight at him.

Then it was gone.

James stepped back so fast he hit the wall.

His heart slammed against his ribs.

Downstairs, the laughter continued.

Ellie called up.

“Jamie? You coming back for coffee? Dad’s threatening to break out the single malt!”

He swallowed.

“Coming!”

He dried his face.

Told himself it was imagination.

Told himself he was safe.

He went back downstairs.

The table had been cleared.  

People were moving into the sitting room low sofas, bookshelves floor-to-ceiling, a fire crackling in the grate.

Dad poured whiskies.

Mum put on a record Billie Holiday, soft and smoky.

Ellie curled up on the sofa beside James.

She leaned her head on his shoulder.

“Love you, idiot brother,” she murmured.

“Love you too,” he whispered back.

And for almost an hour, he let himself believe it.

He let himself sink into the warmth.

He let himself pretend.

Until the lights flickered.

Just once.

Everyone looked up.

Dad frowned.

“Power cut? In this weather?”

Mum laughed.

“Probably someone’s electric car charger again. They overload the grid.”

The lights steadied.

Conversation resumed.

But James felt it.

A pressure change.

Like the air before a storm.

He glanced at the window.

Outside, the golden street was still perfect.

But the shadows between the lamps were darker than they should have been.

And one of them moved.

Not wind.

Not a cat.

Something tall.

Something thin.

Something watching the house.

James’s hand tightened around the whisky glass.

Ellie noticed.

“You okay?”

He forced a smile.

“Yeah. Just… tired.”

She studied him a moment longer, then shrugged.

“Stay the night. Your old room’s still made up.”

He nodded.

Later—much later—when the fire had died to embers and the house was quiet, he crept downstairs.

He couldn’t sleep.

The guest room (his old room) had the same posters he’d had at eighteen: Radiohead, The Cure, a faded map of Iceland he’d pinned up when he still dreamed of travelling.

He sat on the edge of the bed.

Stared at the wall.

Then he heard it again.

The rumble.

Closer.

Under the house.

Like something waking up.

He stood.

Went to the window.

Pulled back the curtain.

The street was empty.

Except for one thing.

Across the mews, beneath a streetlamp, stood a figure.

Tall.  

Hooded.  

Face hidden.

But the posture was familiar.

Too familiar.

It was the way the scarred version of himself had stood in the candle circle.

Watching.

Waiting.

James’s breath fogged the glass.

The figure lifted its head slowly.

Even from this distance, he knew it was looking straight at him.

Then it raised one hand.

A small, almost friendly wave.

The streetlamp flickered.

When it steadied, the figure was gone.

James stepped back.

His heart was racing now.

He went to the door.

Opened it quietly.

The hallway was dark.

But a thin line of blue light glowed under the door at the end of the corridor.

The door to the cellar.

The house had never had a cellar.

Not in his memory.

He walked toward it.

The floorboards didn’t creak.

The house was holding its breath.

He reached the door.

The brass handle was shaped like a fist.

The same fist.

He touched it.

It was warm.

Behind him, the house was still.

Ellie’s soft breathing came from upstairs.

Mum and Dad’s quiet snores.

The fire’s last embers popping.

All of it real.

All of it perfect.

All of it waiting for him to choose again.

He turned the handle.

The door opened without sound.

Beyond it, a staircase descended.

Blue-lit.

Smooth.

Familiar.

James looked back once.

At the warm, golden house.

At the life he could keep.

Then he stepped down.

Because somewhere deep inside, he understood.

There is no perfect side.

There is only the side you’re willing to fight for.

And the fight was just beginning.

The door closed behind him.

The rumble grew louder.

And somewhere above, in the perfect golden London that had never been, a single candle thirty-second candle.guttered and died.