Why I keep the fire alive, I don’t know. It wasn’t particularly strong, or explosive. You couldn’t have used it to fight any wars, or heat a city. From the outside, it was nothing special. Destined to flare, flicker, then fade. But to me, it was soft and warm. Just enough to keep a hope alive. But what if that hope burns brighter? Brighter than I could dream? Maybe it’s not a hearth, strangled in the crib, but a wildfire, being nursed to devastating force. I don’t know. I guess an arsonist is more interested in the lick of the flame than its bite. It’s selfish then; keeping these embers a glow. …I’m fine with that