Finnegan Riley was fourteen when he first noticed the candles.
There were three of them, white and waxy in a smudged pane window of a crumbling house across the way. They were lit even though it was the middle of the day and the sun was high in the sky. And there was a set in another window — two this time — dancing aflame in another entrance window down the street. There was even one in the shop window of the butcher in the main square. And then again in the gunnery shop, of all places.