the fire is kindling (1)

The fire is kindling, a whisper of smoke curling into the night sky as the first sparks dance. I crouch, hands steady, feeding the small blaze with dry twigs. Each snap and crackle echoes in the silence around me.

The clearing feels vast, though it's no more than a dozen paces wide. Above, the moon peers through a tangle of skeletal branches, its cold light a stark contrast to the heat building at my fingertips.

This was my sanctuary, once—a place of childhood adventures and whispered secrets. But tonight, it feels different. The air carries a tension, an anticipation. The forest is watching, I am certain.