Long after the Grove learned to walk and the stars wept themselves into soil, there came a fire that did not burn.
It was first noticed by the Night-Keepers of the Eastern Hollow, who tended the sleep-rites of the old stones. They saw it not as flame, but as a low shimmer upon the lake's skin—red, gold, and soft as breath upon still water.
At first, they thought it memory. Or trick of wind. But when they stepped near, the warmth wrapped around their bones, not as heat, but as familiarity.
It smelled not of ash, but of hearths that had never needed to be built.
They called it the Waiting Fire.
Not for what it did.
But for what it never demanded.
It gathered in places where people sat with unspoken grief. Where hands hovered above another's without touching. Where voices trailed off—not in fear, but in reverence.
Those who sat with the Waiting Fire found their hearts slowing. Not still. Not empty.
Just enough.
