After many long years, Entelechia has come to this small town once more. Though she is merely passing through, she cannot help but head out of the port, towards that simple wooden house, unwilling to let her only memory of the place be that of a former target, wretchedly choking on blood and smoke. The house still looks as it did when Candler resided there. Day after day, she would sit out on the balcony, spinning candle wicks and stirring hot wax. 'Miss Candler, is that you—' Upon hearing the name 'Candler', Entelechia subconsciously pulls on a thread of blood, drawing forth trembling fake ears made of hair and fur—the usual motions Candler made when she was listening. 'Not making candles any longer?' The old man calling for her is an old customer of Candler's. The man looks at her, then at the clothes drying under the sun on the balcony. 'Oh dear, you sold off your workshop.' Candler was an artisan of wax and wicks, the candles she crafted scented and elegant. Someone once told her being a candlemaker didn't require any sort of skill. You could simply repackage ones from the factory as handmade ones, after all. But she sought out a teacher and learned what she could of the craft. Her teacher once said that no matter the time or place, there was always someone lighting a candle. Some to grieve a death, some to celebrate new life, while others simply eager to read a salacious scene from a book. Candler quietly coughed, saying she was once a sickly child and did not have much opportunity to travel. If possible, she would instead travel through the medium of candles, to witness the customs of every corner of the land. From then on, she would recreate the candles her teacher had mentioned, one after the other. From the candles of Sami hewn from split logs, to Leithanian candles with their Originium crystal fiber wicks. By the time Entelechia's mission was complete, and there was no longer any need for the guise of 'Miss Candler', there was only one type of candle she had yet to make: the rose candles of Gaul, for times of mourning. '*sigh* I still think about your candles. Without them, graveside visits feel so empty.' She looks at the old man, his ears bereft of any hair or fur. He knows not any Entelechia, but he has always remembered the false persona of Candler. A sudden thought strikes her: was Candler truly false? 'I do have some spare time today, sir. I can make you one last candle. But I will be making one in a new style, if you don't mind.' 'Thank you... Thank you, Miss Candler 'Do you know anyone growing roses? Let us first borrow a flower, then prepare the other materials. Imagine the petals are little boats floating upon the wax, slowly fading away, day by day...' And so, one ordinary evening, the candlemaker who longed to travel the land finally recreated the last candle she knew. Entelechia carried on with her mission, while Miss Candler passed away peacefully in this small town, leaving no regrets. And in distant lands, behind a string of missions and target names, many more such brief lives and identities await. Entelechia is happy to eventually embrace each one and bid them farewell as they wither away. Though these lives serve as mere guises, arduous means to lofty ideals, they are, above all, her own.