The Threshold

You arrive unlit: not dark, but reflecting. A body so dense that, under the right light, it could pass for a star. You buckle under the weight of what would not ignite. Decades of heat compressed into a mute core. The core holds – until holding becomes collapse.

The Way

The first thing to burn is the face they loved – the tilt towards their gaze, the smile that lit when they looked. Ash. You stand at the split in the surface. Every instinct strains to seal it. Most came for the light; they will leave with it. Those who stay will ask for the old face: the smile stretched over a surface that groans. Pressure tears the surface open. Light spills out: raw, blinding, yours. Your hands stop asking permission. Your eyes return nothing now. You thought burning would destroy you. Borrowed light already had.

The Shadow

The Radiant keeps to the orbit of the nearest fire. He returns its light so faithfully that for a moment it seems born in him. Then the fire turns elsewhere, and where his glow had been, only cold. He could ignite. The core is ready. But ignition would burn the surface first – and no one ever saw past it. They loved the light he gave back, never the dark mass that gave it. Heat gathers in his core. He turns his face away. Under the right light, he still looks lit. He has held the angle so long that even he has stopped looking for the source. He waits in the dark for the next fire, already turned towards where it will appear. He dies a flawless mirror, throwing back the light of a sky that went dark before he was born. ❖ The Untamed ignited young: a first fire so violent it scorched every face in the room. She took the flinch for awe. The room stops breathing before she is through the door. In the held breath, a verdict: This is what I am. The gentle leave first; then even those who loved her before the blaze fall silent. One night a hand comes towards her, open. It wants warmth. She flares before she can tell warmth from threat. The hand withdraws. The cold pours back in. Her fire becomes the room. No one enters without a hand raised to the face. The hush feels like reverence. She keeps burning, certain every open hand has come to put her out.

The Cut