In a sunroom on the 19th floor, above the humming of trams and the scent of roasted chestnuts, lived a small lamp who once lit a poet’s teahouse, or so she claimed.
Her name was Madam Goldleaf, although she preferred just Blossom. Her hat shimmered with flecks of stories she wouldn’t tell twice, and her voice – if you stood still enough to hear it – sounded like rain tapping a lacquer tray.
She had strong opinions on sugar cubes and believed that chairs should always be slightly turned toward conversation.
Once, Duckpea asked if she’d ever been in love. She didn’t answer. Instead, she tilted her golden brim, dimmed to a soft amber glow, and whispered, “That depends. Do you count shadows that never left?”
She rarely leaves the windowsill now. But sometimes, at exactly 7:03 pm, she lights herself and faces east – toward the sea, or perhaps just toward memory.
