Setsiana sat at the chair and put the plate of persimmon cakes on the desk. There was the mirror, the eight small candle holders surrounding the face, the eight little tea lights lined up on the desk, the lamp to light them off of, the pot of soil, the young seedling wrapped in a damp towel, and the cup of water. The tea lights were tiny; designed to burn themselves out in under an hour, so Qhoroali must not have lit hers too long ago. Burning them out was the point — eight candles, for eight regrets, eight sins of the past year, that you burned to ash on the first day of the next.
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I really like these traditions!