THE BURNING

A dark, densely wrapped figure stood in a narrow street square, the surrounding townhouses leant against each other like books in a library, their round, black windows watching him like a silent audience.

The man’s bare feet were stained by the thick oil beneath them, which spiraled outward from the plaza, forming hypnotic, crawling patterns across the grimy cobblestones, soaking into the foundations of the cramped buildings as if the bricks were dry sponge.

Waves of chilling rain poured from the sky, drenching the dented rooftops and turning the winding lanes into slick rivers of muck.The pools of black fluid around his feet grew murky and polluted, assaulted by the sleet that splashed from gutters and the overhanging eaves.

The man sighed, tilting his head back, his cowl falling onto his shoulders, allowing the dirt on his face to be washed away by the rain. A deep sigh escaped his lips as he drew his hood back over his head, hiding his features and shielding himself from the chilling gusts that whipped down the alleyways.

He turned back down to face the inky dark liquid pooling before him, its surface reflecting the dim light of the blackened night sky. The figure reached into the folds of his tattered coat, his fingers closing around a tarnished copper lighter, its surface rough and worn from years of use.

With a practised flick of his thumb, he sparked the flame to life, its frail, flickering glow dancing across his palms, which he held close around the tiny fire, sheltering it from the oppressive gale that tore through the streets. For a moment, the flame seemed impossibly fragile against the harshness of the weather, a small, defiant warmth.

Despite the bleak, biting cold that surrounded him, the man felt a sudden sense of peace wash over him as he gazed calmly into the fire. Its warmth and light like a balm for his weary soul, offering brief comfort amidst the relentless downpour and wind. He found himself lost in thought, reflecting on his past stories: the mistakes he had made, the brothers he had lost, the paths he had chosen. He was a good man, at heart; at least that’s what he told himself.

As the flame flickered and gleamed, the man’s lips curved into a calm, peaceful smile. His grip on the lighter loosened, and it slipped from his hand.

The light tumbled toward the cobblestones, time seeming to slow as it fell, the rain briefly faltering as the world itself paused to watch.

Silence hung in the air, thick and expectant, until the lighter struck the pavement with a muted clink.

The quiet didn’t last, however. No more than a second later, the oil roared into flames, blossoming like a molten flower.

A rapid, serpentine eruption of fire painted the surroundings in harsh golds and furious reds. It flooded down the tight streets with a swift, sticky, gluttonous hunger, easily tearing through walls of stone and timber alike. Anything that dared to stand in the blaze’s path was swallowed.

The night air bent into shimmering waves, rippling like a mirage. Smoke unfurled in thick, black tendrils, soaring skyward like a dragon of myth.

With the fires came another ignition, an inferno within the man that had long been asleep, with the explosion, his hearth was stoked once more. The man cloed his eyes, letting the fireball consume him.

For the first time in an achingly long while, he felt the burning once again.