The eighteen candles are enough to illuminate the once pitch dark room. Flickering in their soft glow I can make out "Happy Birthday" written in blue frosting, one of the few things I still remember how to read. The cake looks like ones I’ve seen in the dimly lit bakery windows I pass on my way to work in Penumbra. The candlelight turns the room orange, much different than the artificial sunlight of the farm, but its warmth and hue reminds me much more of the pictures of the sun I’d seen in textbooks.
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