ALL THE WARMTH IN THE WORLD

The two young lovers sit, huddled around the fire. Underneath an oak tree, its limbs bared by the seasons. The flames gutter like a candle, nearing the end of its life. Snow falls around them like white volcanic ash, it accumulates in large drifts, as the wind drives the flakes in a diagonal descent that stings their faces and eyes.

The wood has been partially wetted by the ceaseless snow. All of their attempts at sustaining a fire had failed, everything, seemingly working against them. The darkness that hinders their vision, the cold that causes them to fumble even the most mundane tasks, the wind that cuts through their layers of clothing like an ethereal dagger. Even the stars seem to be aligned in a manner that is cumbersome. They offer no reprieve from the abyssal darkness that hangs in the air as an aura of desolation.

The only light they have to work by is the silver crescent moon. It hangs in the sky like some pocked medallion. A silent observer to all of their fruitless efforts to build a fire. The wind howls as it blows over the land, swallowing all other sounds. A cacophony of endless cries.

The boy leans in against the meager campfire and pulls his gloves from his hands.

"What are you doing?"

"We don't have a choice."

He tosses the woolen mitts onto the fire and pulls from his pocket their final match. Silently, he prays to whatever god might be looking down on them in pity as he strikes the head. An orange blaze dances at the end of the stick. So fragile. So delicate.

He stares into the flame, and in that bright glow, he sees his future. Unimaginable cold. Loss. Sacrifice. The tip of the match flickers as a gust of wind flies by. He cups one shivering hand around the flame to shield it from the endless assault of the unflinching elements.

The storm rages on as the gloves ignite, blue blazes blanket the fabric. They lick at the damp wood like forked tongues. The wood begins to emit cracks that are barely audible above the raging gale. The fire begins to lash out against the night sky, a whip, fashioned from flames. The boy watches, eyes wide.

He frantically cracks more fallen limbs, sharp snaps as they splinter and break. He tosses the fresh fuel onto the flames. Smoke rises from the inferno in a thick gray plume, it drifts upward, before dissipating in the snow-covered branches of the oak. Heatwaves shimmer above the fire like some glorious mirage.

The boy feels a solitary drop of water against his hand. Then, more drops patter against his coat like a steady rapping of rain. He looks up in time to see the snow shift from the branch above them. It falls in a dense white mass. The fire sizzles out.

He takes the girl in his arms, all the warmth in the world.