He doesn't know where he got the idea from. Doesn't know half the time why he even bothers. But every time the first shift is on at night, he makes sure he's the first one there. All so no one will see him.
The candle's been in various places around the squad room. But it's always lit. He muses as he looks at it that the shift can think of it as a memorial. A little something for those victims who never see justice and for those who do.
After all, a candle symbolizes, as well as gives off light. And whether or not people want to believe it, everyone's got a light inside them. It shows in the little things they do, little things that make the world look at each and every person a different way.
The problem with this, he thinks, as he sits at his desk to wait for the rest of the shift to arrive, is that the lights inside of people can be extinguished, just like the candle. It's ironic in a way, but it fits.
The rest of the shift comes walking in, one by one, a few minutes later. They look towards the candle, and watch it. The flame flickers every now and then, guttering, as if it's going to go out, but it keeps on burning.
They look towards him after a few seconds, but he shrugs, acts indifferently, as if he knows nothing. He'd like to think that they can't see through him, but something tells him that they already know he's the one behind it.
Hardly matters, though. They take their seats at their own desks and look at the candle every now and then. It's still burning. He watches it as well, careful to only do so when the others have turned away.
It's a good sign, he thinks, as he looks up from his paperwork and glances over at it. As long as that candle is burning, there's still some hope left. After all, it's only when the candle goes out that they know they've lost another person.
And sure enough, just as the flame dies out, the phone rings, and the shift officially begins.