Every story begins with a light. Not the comfort of a hearth or the sharp glare of a lamp, but a single candle. A flame that belongs at the edge of things, where one world ends and another leans close to listen.
The ritual is simple. Place the candle on the threshold of your home. Light it. Leave the door slightly open. If the flame holds steady, the story may pass to you safely. If it flickers, something else has noticed.
There are whispers of readers who swore they never lit such a flame, yet woke to find melted wax pooled on their nightstand. Others dream of doors they never opened, standing ajar, their rooms bathed in an amber glow. The candle follows. It does not care if you strike the match or not.
What steps through depends on how long the flame endures. Some hear faint footsteps just beyond the door. Others wake to the sound of breathing that matches their own but comes from across the room. The unlucky ones never wake at all.
One rule is certain. Never blow out the candle. If it dies by your hand, it remembers you. And when a candle remembers, it burns again.