Warmth.
Draped in a black wool she sat by the night fire. Crescent moon smiled at her whenever she mumbled her secrets to it. It's sneer gleamed in her brown eyes as if there was a private joke between two of them. Little crickets sang countryside songs for the night.
'It's strange how even in the fire you can see their faces. How a slight spark brings back so much from lost, skipped seconds.'
He threw some withered straws into the flames. His face burning crimson.
Not because of fire but, because of what was once forgotten.
'It's warm.' She stared the fire, captivated and spellbound. Raging breathes slowly turning to calm winds.
'Then? It did not appear warm to me. I get burned everytime.'
He threw another straw into the fire a little furiously.
'Sometimes all what one needs is a warm corner. Either from material fires or from absolute souls.
It's hard to get but always worthy to keep.'
She closed her eyes gently, buried her face in her knees and slept in silence.
Maybe the warmth had convinced her to leave the old shape. Maybe it was melting her to be molded into a new form. Maybe he was all fluid and the warmth boiled him rather than melting him.
Not everything is meant to effect everyone in one constant way.
