The Wound

The fire was your first teacher: crackle of wood, hiss of sap, faces of your people made and unmade by the flicker. Beyond that circle, darkness no one named. One night the flames sink. Glare dims to ember – and the roof of the world falls away. You see points of light that are not fire. Tiny. Cold. Ancient. Your arms ache with kindling. You could feed the flames, restore the warmth. You set the wood down.

The Path

You step back from the heat. Cold finds you at once, skin remembering warmth only by its ghost. The fire is a small thing now – a bright coin on a vast, dark floor. The room was always this large. You didn't know. When you return to the warmth, you return as a visitor. You sit in that circle and love them still, but the fire never feels like home again. Sometimes you will speak; mostly you will not. You will see their eyes cloud when you describe the cold and recognise the loneliness of those who saw the roof tear away.

The Shadow

Not everyone sets the wood down. The Blinded Keeper looked up once, as a boy. The void met his gaze and offered nothing. No malice, no love. Only distance. He has not looked up since. Now his hands feed the kindling, until the wall of light is solid. He dies curled around cold stones, arms full of ash. Above him, the stars continue. ⧫ The Cartographer of Heaven steps into the dark and shatters. The infinite pours into her, dissolving her edges. She reaches for the only power left to her: naming. She draws a line between two lights. Then another. By winter, she has caged the sky in constellations. She returns to the fire and declares that the stars have spoken, that meaning is fixed, that she holds the key. Her disciples memorise the lines. They recite every name. None of them look up.

The Cut