Dreams of the Drowned Star

Have you ever felt fire creep along your skin, slow and deliberate, like a beast savoring its meal? Not the sudden snap of a stray ember or the sharp nip of candle flame, but the true hunger of it-heat curling inward, devouring, unmaking you thread by thread. Have you ever breathed smoke so thick, so absolute, that it wove itself into your breath, into your bones, until you became part of the ruin itself? Until there was nothing left but the choked silence of your own burning?

I have. Many times. And it always smells the same.

The first thing I feel is warmth. A gentle touch, almost kind. A liar's comfort before the pain sets in. The air is thick, heavy with the acrid bite of charred wood, the brittle snap of splitting beams. A sound as familiar as my own name. Smoke presses into my lungs, wrapping tight, a vice of unseen fingers, ruthless in their hold. My body jerks, a marionette pulled by old strings. My throat tightens. The past reaches forward, eager to claim me again...