On the same day every standard year Thrawn lit a candle. It was unerring, like clockwork. Each time it was the same tall, white, unscented candle.
It bordered on ritualistic. He dimmed the lights, lit the candle, and then sat in front of it in contemplative silence. Stared at it, until it burned down into nothing more than a puddle of wax.
After that he would usually just clean up the mess and go about his evening as if nothing had occurred. Occasionally he sat there long after it had cooled, and just stared off into some unfathomable distance. Once Pellaeon had walked into the room to see him hunched over, his arms propped up on his knees and his face buried in his hands.
The sight had left him feeling perturbed for days, but he knew better than to say anything to Thrawn.
Whatever he was doing, it was obviously personal. He knew when to let someone have some peace.