Ash covered the ground where flames once danced and sang, but something beneath it still pulsed. Slowly, quietly. The embers flickered like stars against the night sky, steady and rhythmic, refusing to let the beat die. This wasn’t the end.

From a distance came the sound of footsteps. A man approached the old firepit, his hands hovering over the low, simmering heat. He had brought with him matches, firewood, and a poker. Tools for a grand revival.

He knelt beside the pit and began to lay the wood carefully, arranging it in a delicate pattern so the embers would have something to cling to. Then, from the matchbox, he drew a single matchstick. With one swift motion, friction became light. He dropped the flame among the wood and began the rekindling.

Smoke curled upward in soft coils. Sparks awakened and slowly, flames started to catch fire. Not wild, but intentional. Colour began to seep through the fire as flickers of orange, yellow, and white glowed lightly against the dark. The flames began to dance and sing once more, gaining momentum as the wind picked up.

The gusts grew stronger, not to destroy, but to remind the fire how to breathe again. The low hum grew louder, roaring in defiance. Bold and unrelenting, refusing to simmer down. The fire didn’t return in fury, but in dignity. Bright, loud, and alive.

The man sat nearby, his gaze fixed on the glow. He didn’t speak. He simply breathed, matching the beat of the warmth. Letting the sweet scent of pine and oak settle into his chest.