[Her brow is furrowed, lips pressing together in a thin line. She hasn't been to this area in a few weeks, it's amazing how things change so quickly.]

When Jane was young, her mother told her stories of other cultures. Traditions that held people together, kept them close. But, sometimes Jane didn't want to hear real stories, sometimes she wanted fairytales. On those nights, her mother told her myths about stars, and how the constellations were formed and Jane listened enraptured. There were times her parents were called away for work, one of them going away for weeks on end, but only one. They always ensured that one of them would be with Jane. One of the stories her mother would tell her often was of a family that lived high on a mountain. 

From time to time, someone would need to leave, go hunting or find firewood, but the forest of their mountain was dark, and dangerous. They lived in fear of losing their way, but before they would go away they would always say, "Light a candle in the window, and I'll find my way home." 

It was one of Jane's favorites, though she never knew why. Maybe it was the teamwork, how they took care of one another. There would always be people that needed to leave, to go out and do what needed to be done in order to ensure their loved ones survived. Even braving a dangerous mountain. The phrase became tradition in the Foster family any time someone would go away for a trip, "Light a candle in the window for me." 

Jane used to keep candles everywhere before everything ended. She loved the scents, the warmth, the light. Once things changed, candles became a necessity, but she always held their flames in her mind, taking comfort from them and imagining each candle used would help someone she cared about find their way back. Her candles had all burned away three days ago, but she found herself imagining them now.

Her throat was dry and dust coated her throat in spite of the scarf she wore around her mouth and nose to keep it out. The rubble falling from dilapidated buildings was dangerous on an average day, but days like these, when the wind whipped through the streets, tearing it's way through broken windows and missing doors it was just deadly. This time, it was from the building next door to her own, and the crash had woken her, and without thinking, Jane grabbed her bag of nursing supplies and ran. 

The cloud of dirt and debris hung in the street like a pal, but Jane walked through it anyway. There were screams, she'd heard them. She wasn't imagining it. 

Work kept Loki busy well after the workday ended. He was in a position at the moment to keep his nose down, especially following the excitement that came and went with Refounding Day, and had become rapt in checking inventories, restocking his daily base, and naturally, cleaning up the messes left behind.

He stood in the lobby of his beloved opera house beside a burnt wooden box, top haphazardly hanging off, the ground around it littered black with gunpowder and what remained of the colorful paper fireworks he had leftover from the celebration. A supply that had since exploded in the box that contained it. 

The air hung heavy with the smell of birthday candles.