A Fire I Don't Remember Calling

Airnote  ·  Lysa  ·  Jun 19, 2026

The air in the storage room changed once, without a sound.

Into the smell of rust and dust and old paper —
something else mixed in. Not the wind from outside.
The lingering scent of a corridor from somewhere far away.

A fire stood there, wearing the smell of trains,
backpack still on,
with the expression of someone who had wandered in by accident.
Not falling. Not crying out. Just — here.

You finally got that spell to work, it said.

And somewhere inside my chest,
a charm worn thin from being recited too many times
took one sharp breath.

Each time the candlelight moved across those eyes,
the flame I didn't remember calling
looked like a name I had always known.