“Bulb’s out?” Bob asked as he walked his dog past my house.

I glanced at my neighbor, then at the darkened Christmas lights. “Looks like it.”

“Cheap junk.”

“Yeah.”

But it wasn’t. They were my grandfather’s lights, each bulb a tiny crystal vessel containing a brilliant, shimmering soul captured at the moment of death. The souls had burned bright for decades, no power needed.

Until tonight.

I found the shattered bulb, the soul inside forever lost. Renewing the light would require a new bulb. A new soul.

I pocketed an empty bulb, then a knife.

Bob couldn’t have gone far.

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