The Lost Evans Stillroom Where the Wick Went Strange

Stepping into the stillroom, one senses the faint sweetness of hardened wax, cut by the rustic edge of tallow. Nothing appears tipped or shattered, but a hush clings to the stone as though a measuring rhythm slipped for only a moment—long enough to alter the room’s certainty.

A Chandler’s Devoted Routine

Gareth Iwan Evans, born 1875 in Carmarthen, shaped household tapers and blessed candles for small parishes.

A woollen wrap from his sister Carys lies folded beside the hearth, near notes in Welsh script listing scent blends. Gareth favored dawn melting, afternoon moulding, and dusk trimming of wicks. His modest origins linger in reused cloth squares pressed into makeshift strainers.

Days Measured in Heat and Patience

Ladles, polished smooth, rest beside a kettle marked with old parish seals. A row of taper moulds stands upright in a rack, one set apart with a faint lean. Brass scales on the counter show a final weight left unrecorded. Cooled wax rounds sit near a mixing bowl, their surfaces clouded—evidence of calculation that began neatly, then faltered.

Strain Tightening Against Warm Stone

Behind a rack of herb sachets lies a returned order slip: “inconsistent burning.” A taper bent subtly off-centre rests on a board as if Gareth meant to remake it. Wax splashes on the flagstones form an arc that does not match steady work—more like hesitant pacing. A pan of scented wax on the side counter shows a ring of cooling interrupted mid-swirl.

Returning to the stillroom, one last sign remains: a single finished taper set beside its crooked twin—perfect beside uncertain—marking the moment Gareth stepped away and left the silence to deepen.

The house remains abandoned.