An old poem– this is Luca’s version of my poem transformed in a story- I hope you enjoy it! Tell me in the comments which one do you like more!

The fire burns in the stove,
Gripped by fear, you sit and listen.
The fire begins to speak.
It tells you stories
And asks if you would like all its power.
At once, you answer,
“All of it.”
The fire takes you into the depths.
From the depths, a rider appears.
You know nothing more about the fire.
Tears run down your face like a child’s.

---

The fire burns in the stove.

Outside, the wind wanders through the night, but inside there is only warmth. The room is small, lit only by the orange glow of the flames. It is the kind of warmth that makes people stay awake long after they meant to go to bed.

You sit before the fire and listen.

The fire begins to speak.

Its voice is hidden among the crackling wood, as though it has always been there, waiting for someone patient enough to hear it.

It tells stories.

Stories of forgotten kings whose names once made nations kneel.

Stories of queens whose words changed the fate of kingdoms.

Stories of warriors who carried power like a sword and of scholars who carried it like a book.

The fire tells every story without pride.

Without envy.

As though it has watched them all pass by.

When the last story fades into the flames, the fire asks only one question.

“Would you like all my power?”

“All of it.”

The room disappears.

The warmth vanishes.

The fire is gone.

Cold surrounds you.

Not the cold of winter, but something older.

You open your eyes.

Grey stone walls rise around you. There are no windows. No door. The room seems carved from the heart of a forgotten castle, where neither day nor night can enter.

At the far end stands a rider.

Motionless.

His horse lowers its head as though it has been standing there for centuries.

The rider does not move.

He does not speak.

He does not look toward you.

Only silence lives in the room.

You wait.

Nothing changes.

You call out.

The silence answers.

You search for the fire.

There is no trace of it.

Only then do you understand that warmth is not something you notice while you have it.

It is something you miss only after it has gone.

Your eyes fill with tears.

Not because of fear.

Not because of the rider.

But because, for the first time, you understand the value of the fire that once burned so simply in the stove.

The rider finally lifts his head.

His face is tired.

Not cruel.

Not angry.

Only tired.

He looks at you as though he has known you for a very long time.

Then, for the first time, he steps aside.

Behind him, resting on a stone pedestal, lies a single ember.

Small.

Barely alive.

Its light is no stronger than that of a dying star.

You walk toward it.

You kneel.

You reach out your hand.

The ember is warm.

For one brief moment, hope returns.

Then it crumbles into ash.

The room grows colder than before.

The rider lowers his head once more.

Silence returns.

Only then do you understand.

The fire had never offered to give away its power.

It had offered to take away your belief that power could ever belong to anyone.

The stories had all been true.

The kings.

The queens.

The victories.

The glory.

Only one part had been missing.

Every story had ended exactly where yours had begun.

With a fire.

And a single question.

Far away, beyond the stone walls, somewhere in another world, another fire begins to burn.

It tells stories.

It waits.

And sooner or later…

someone else will answer,

“All of it.”