On the forty-third day, it was still candles or oil lamps.

Last night, I slept deeply, perhaps simply because I was utterly exhausted. This must be the result of my body being pushed beyond its limits again and again.

The pain from my wound has lessened, just slightly, but enough to notice. I still apply the medicinal powder, and the swelling around the injury is gradually subsiding, which is a welcome relief to me.

The gentle patter outside the treehouse reaches my ears—without even looking, I know it must be raining.

I’ve grown accustomed to this; here, rain falls every few days. I detest venturing out in wet weather, so I brought the homemade sausages hanging under the eaves inside. Though they were sheltered from the rain, the damp air might ruin them, and keeping them indoors gives me peace of mind.

Rainy days like this fill my whole body with lethargy; in this, Little Black and I are much alike.

As soon as it woke, it went to the door, peered through the crack, then returned to its nest, ears drooping, and lay down to sleep.

Of course, even if I can’t go out, there’s plenty that still needs doing.

The smoked meat I started last night has hung for an entire evening—I wonder if it turned out as I hoped.

This anticipation stirs in me as I head to the lower level; the outer layer of the hanging pork has dried and hardened. I think it counts as a success—at least it’s not burnt. I’ve never made smoked meat before; this is my first attempt, and I’m quite satisfied with the result.

From what I remember, smoked meat should be cured, but I didn’t have many spices for curing—only rubbed some salt and soy sauce onto the pieces. They should be ready once fully dried, I suppose? I have no clear idea when that will be, but so long as they’re edible and won’t spoil, that’s enough.

Just as I was about to return to the upper level to eat a few wild fruits for breakfast, something caught my attention—the chunks of wild boar fat set aside. An idea suddenly struck me.

These fats were saved for rendering. Not long ago, the lack of cooking oil made even relieving myself painful. Since pork fat keeps well, I planned to render it into lard for future meals.

But just now, inspiration struck: “Candles!” I want to try making a candle from pork fat.

For lighting, I have only the fire pit and a flashlight left behind by the previous occupant. The flashlight is precious; I haven’t dared use it yet, since once it’s gone, it’s gone.

When I was young, candles were a household staple; power outages were frequent, and nearly every family kept candles on hand. Their structure is simple: a wick and wax. But I have neither.

No matter; if I don’t have them, I must improvise or find substitutes.

I know the wick must be flammable and slow-burning; otherwise, the candle is doomed to fail.

I’ve already found my substitute: the cotton thread used to secure the stuffing in my bedding.

All I need to do is cut some, twist them together, and roll several threads into a single wick. It won’t take long.

The time-consuming part is the other substitute, which I’ve just begun to prepare.

I chopped the wild boar fat and tossed it into the pot, beginning to render it.

As the fat warms, lard starts to seep out, and bubbles rise from the bottom of the pot. I keep the fire low, fearing splatters and burnt fat, so I move the pot as far from the flames as possible.

As the lard renders, its aroma wafts everywhere—and sure enough, it lures Little Black over.

The fragrance blends the scent of meat, freshness, and a hint of that toasted-crisp aroma reminiscent of scorched rice. A deep inhale fills the air with a tantalizing sense of rich, crisp flavor.

Little Black, now calmed, lies attentively among the dry firewood, watching intently.

As the fat continues to render, the chunks shrink and curl, their color shifting from white to deep brown, finally forming small lumps floating atop the lard, bubbling and rolling.

“Yes, it’s ready!” When the fat turned dark, I lifted the pot away from the fire. Thankfully, my left hand has recovered enough; otherwise, I wouldn’t have managed it.

With chopsticks, I scooped the cracklings into a bowl, dividing them in two.

I would never waste these. In the past, perhaps for health’s sake, I’d discard them, but now, they are a rare delicacy!

After setting the steaming cracklings aside, I sprinkled salt evenly over them.

One plate went to Little Black, as a reward for its good behavior; the other, I kept for myself.

I picked up a piece with salt, put it in my mouth, and chewed slowly. It’s a taste from childhood, bringing memories flooding back.

Each bite brings a new flavor: the first, crisp and fragrant; the second, the residual lard oozes, filling my mouth with meaty aroma; the third…

With most of the fat rendered out, there’s no trace of greasiness.

After tasting four pieces, Little Black sidled over, licking its lips and begging for more.

I couldn’t refuse, and though a twinge of reluctance struck me, I gave it the rest.

But then things veered from my original plan.

My initial idea was simple: pork fat solidifies as it cools, so I prepared a basin of water, stirred the twisted wick into the hot lard, and placed it in the cold water to set.

Soon, troubles arose.

First, the wick, though coated in lard, remained too soft, always bending and impossible to straighten.

Second, this repeated process wasted too much—the surface of the basin was now dotted with floating lumps of solidified lard.

Third, even if I managed to make a candle, a single pot of lard wouldn’t yield many, and one would burn out quickly.

After weighing it all, I abandoned this method.

But my efforts weren’t wasted; a new idea took shape.

I found a discarded soda can, cut off the top, threaded one end of the cotton wick inside and left the other end dangling outside, then poured in some lard.

Carefully, I placed the can in a basin of cold water to let it set.

…

About an hour later, the lard had solidified at last. My heart was pounding with anxiety, fearful of failure.

I fetched a burning branch, hands trembling, and lit the cotton wick.

My breath caught, as I waited, hoping desperately it would burn…