The sconce on the wall for crackling torches left burning for a returning resents the assumption of infinite patience. She's attached to an old brick wall; not by affection, but by habit and tools of the trade of attachment. Occasionally-replaced simple screws worked into the bracket. The wall is as dusty to touch, as divisive as a tome of records, of laws of old. The sconce respects history-- wishes more would become antiquity. Knowing every flame left ardently lit, eventually burns out. While here she stays.