She is not in a meadow now. She is somewhere smaller than all those places. And infinitely larger. She is inside herself. Eyes closed. Candle burning. Hands still. Smiling the specific, private smile of someone who has found what they were looking for. Not in the meadow. Not behind the curtain. Not in the cathedral. In the dark. Where it always was.

The candle she holds is not the source of the light the artwork is about. The candle is the symbol. She is the source. The light that illuminates her face — that specific warm radiance that makes this the most intimate of the five artworks — is coming from inside her, from the same place it has always been coming from, from the place that the meadow and the curtain and the cathedral were always trying to point her toward.

By her own light. This is what the journey arrives at. Not a discovery she made in the world. A recognition she made of herself. She went looking for the light and found that she was the one who had been carrying it. Every artwork in this collection was leading here — every running, every attending, every standing in the Before, every dance in the chandelier's glow.

She was always the light. The candle is simply the artwork's way of showing her what she already is.