— Your project is doomed to failure, Olya!”
Serёga sat at the table in my kitchen, devouring a cabbage pie and laughing so loudly that crumbs flew in every direction. “Do you really believe that anyone in our town will buy your candles? Our grandmothers at the market pay three rubles for matches, and here you are with your ‘exclusives’!”
I was standing by the stove, stirring tea in an old teapot, and simply shrugged. Serёga, my neighbor and former classmate, had always been a master at teasing me, especially when it came to my new endeavors.
“— Seriously, Olya,” supported him Masha, his wife, putting her phone aside and looking at me with poorly concealed pity. “How much money do you need to invest? Molds, wax, wicks… Who even needs that? We’re not in the capital; people can barely afford food.”
“I don’t know,” I answered, pouring tea into cups. “I enjoy making candles. They’re beautiful, and they give off a pleasant aroma. Maybe there will be those who appreciate them.”
“Appreciate them?!”
Serёga nearly choked. “Olya, this is not a business; it’s just a hobby. You work in a bank with a stable salary—what more do you need? And these candles are just play. You’ll drop it in a month and see.”
I set the teapot on the table and sat down across from him. Outside the window, it was growing dark, the wind was chasing yellow leaves around the yard, and I watched them, thinking: maybe they are right? I have no experience, no contacts. Just an idea and a bit of savings. But inside, something was persistently whispering: give it a try.
“Okay, laugh all you want,” I said, taking a sip of tea. “But I’m going to start anyway. If only for myself, if only for pleasure. Let’s see who turns out right.”
“Oh, we’ll see, we’ll see,” Masha rolled her eyes. “Just don’t cry later if you end up failing.”
The next day, I went to the bank as usual. I sat at my window, processed payments, smiled at customers. Yet my thoughts were consumed by the candles. During my lunch break, I took out my phone and began searching for where to buy wax and molds. I found a website and placed an order—a small amount as a trial. At home after work, I melted the wax in the kitchen, poured it into an old tin can, and added a couple of drops of lavender oil. It wasn’t perfect, but the scent was wonderful. I lit the wick and sat watching the flickering flame while rain drizzled outside. And I thought: it’s beautiful.
A week later, a package with materials arrived. I took a day off, closed myself in at home, and began experimenting. I bought little jars at the market, mixed scents—vanilla, cinnamon, citrus. Neighbors started to glance at me sideways: my apartment always smelled like a pastry shop. One day, Aunt Valya from the first floor knocked on my door.
“— Olya, does it smell sweet again?” she asked, peeking inside. “Are you baking pies?”
“No, Aunt Val, I’m making candles,” I smiled. “Want to see?”
She stepped in, touched the jars, and sniffed them.
“Oh, how pretty they are,” she said. “And how much do they cost?”
“I’m not selling them yet,” I stammered. “Just making them for myself.”
“Well, if you ever sell them, let me know,” she winked. “I’d take one to put in my bedroom.”
I saw her off and wondered: what if I tried?
On the first weekend, I produced my first batch—twenty candles. They were varied: lavender, coffee, mint. I took photos of them with my phone and posted them in a local social media group. I wrote: “Handcrafted, 200 rubles each, pickup only.” Then I went to bed, not really expecting much.
In the morning, my phone exploded with messages. “Do you have any with vanilla?” “Can I get two?” “Do you offer delivery?” I sat there with my mouth open, reading them. By lunchtime, I had sold half; by the evening—all were gone. People came right to my home, knocked on the door, and picked up the jars. One girl, around twenty years old, even said:
“— Olya, it’s like in the movies, so cozy! Will you continue making them?”
“I will,” I nodded, tucking the money into my purse. “I’ll make another batch soon.”
That evening, Masha called.
“— Listen, Olya, is it true that you’ve started selling candles?” she inquired. “I saw your post in the group. Do people really buy them?”
“True,” I answered with a smile. “I sold everything yesterday. Tomorrow, I plan to make another batch.”
“Oh, come on!” Masha laughed. “You’re something else. Just don’t let it go to your head—maybe it’s just a fluke.”
“Maybe it’s a fluke,” I replied. “Or maybe not.”
A month passed. I made the decision to quit the bank. My boss, Aunt Nina, tried to persuade me to stay for a long time, but I firmly said, “Sorry, now I have my own business.” The candles were in demand—I created an online page and began shipping orders throughout the region. I purchased quality molds and wholesale wax, and even designed a logo—“Olya’s Lights.” My home no longer had enough space, so I rented a small room in the basement of the neighboring building. There, I set up a table, shelves, and hung a lamp. And I worked.
One day, Serёga and Masha came over for a visit. Seeing the boxes, jars, and assorted scents, they were astonished.
“— Wow, Olya, it’s like an entire factory,” remarked Serёga, scratching his head. “And really, people are buying them?”
“— Yes, they are,” I answered, pouring them tea. “Yesterday, I sent a dozen to the next town. And next week I’ll deliver a trial batch to a local store.”
“Oh, come on,” Masha snorted skeptically. “This is not a business yet. It’s just a side gig.”
“A side gig that already brings in more than the bank,” I retorted, looking her straight in the eyes.
They exchanged glances but stayed silent. And I merely smiled inwardly.
Six months later, I hired an assistant—Lenka, a girl from our courtyard. She was studying at college and was looking for a part-time job, and I was struggling with the volume of orders. Together, we poured wax, stuck labels, and packaged the orders. The business grew: I arranged cooperation with two stores in town and ramped up online sales. I even went to a fair—my candles were sold out within two hours. People approached, sniffed, and bought three or four each. One woman said, “Girl, this is the best I’ve seen in years.” I nearly teared up.
I moved out of my old apartment—I rented a bigger place with a separate room for my workshop. The old kitchen was reserved only for making tea, and the candles were moved to the basement and a storage room. The income was stable—not millions, of course, but enough to live on, with some left over. I treated myself to new boots and even spent a weekend at the seaside. And every evening, as I lit my candle, I thought: this is it, it worked.
A year passed in the blink of an eye. One evening, I was sitting in my workshop, tallying up the revenue. The door creaked—it was Serёga and Masha. Both looked subdued, not at all like before.
“— Hi, Olya,” began Serёga, shuffling at the doorway. “May we come in?”
“Of course,” I nodded, putting aside my calculator. “Would you like some tea?”
“No, we’re just here for a moment,” Masha said, clearing her throat. “Listen, Olya, it’s like this… At Serёga’s work, there are layoffs, and my salary was cut. We were thinking… maybe you might have a job for us?”
I looked at them. Serёga, who had mocked my plans a year ago, now stood with his gaze lowered. Masha fidgeted with the sleeve of her jacket like a schoolgirl.
“A job? — you mean for me?” I asked.
“Well, yes,” Serёga nodded. “You’ve made it big. Your candles are selling everywhere, everyone praises them. We could help, if needed. I can carry boxes, and Masha—pack. Just say the word.”
I stared at them silently. I remembered their laughter and words about “failure” and “just a whim.” And now they were standing here asking for help. Suddenly, I felt not anger but even a bit of amusement.
“All right,” I finally said. “There’s work. Come tomorrow; Lenka will teach you everything. But I warn you: I have a strict schedule—no tardiness allowed.”
“Of course, Olya, we’re serious,” Serёga insisted. “Thank you. You’re amazing, truly.”
“Yes,” added Masha. “We never expected it to turn out this way. Forgive us if we ever doubted you.”
“Don’t mention it,” I waved my hand dismissively. “Come on in, have some tea at least.”
They sat down as I set the teapot on the table. Outside, it was raining again, but the workshop was warm, and the air carried the scent of vanilla. I looked at my candles—neatly arranged rows of jars on the shelves—and thought: let them laugh. The main thing is that I didn’t give up. And now, they’ve come to me. And you know what? It feels damn good.
