Snow was falling. Voices lingered. The moon shone dimly. The night was young, yet it was already over.
Nelson sat hunched over his desk, surrounded by books and paper. His room was a cramped university accommodation, the kind meant for sleeping and little else, now cluttered with scattered notes and the remains of dinners gone stale. A single candle flickered at the edge of his desk, its flame wavering with each draft that slipped through the cracks of the old window frame.
The candle had a peculiar scent. Unsettled dreams, the label read. He had bought it half as a joke, half because he liked the odd, smoky sweetness. Tonight, it seemed heavier than usual, pressing at the back of his mind.
"God, why did I pick such a hard degree. They told me it would be difficult, but not this difficult." His words fell flat in the empty room. A sigh slipped past his lips, his forehead resting in his palms.
He stretched, pushing back his chair, and drifted to the window. Outside, the streets were alive despite the late hour. Snow fell softly, perching wherever it could: lampposts, railings, the shoulders of students trudging back from pubs or laughing with friends. Nelson stared at them with a bitterness he couldn't swallow.
'Look at them. Wasting their time socializing. Getting drunk. Whilst I'm here, alone.'
A faint shift in the air broke his thought. The scent of the candle was gone, replaced with something acrid. Smoke.
He turned sharply, scanning the room. The candle still burned as it always had, its little flame harmless inside its jar. The air felt thicker, though, heavier with each breath.
"They must have burnt something in the kitchen." He muttered, more to steady himself than out of belief.
Crossing to his door, he reached for the handle. His fingers brushed against it, then recoiled back instantly.
A searing pain exploded through his hand. He gasped, stumbling back. His palm was already red, skin blistering where it had touched the metal.
"What the fuck?" His voice cracked, shaky, more frightened than he wanted to admit.
---
The heat grew worse. The smell of smoke became suffocating. Shouts echoed faintly from the corridor: panic, confusion, cries for help. And then the light changed. Orange flickers licked across the floor, and shadows danced unnaturally along the walls.
His phone shook in his trembling hand as he dialed for help, but the call never connected. Deadline. He tried again. Nothing. He glanced at the window; the street below was dizzyingly far. Seventh floor. No chance.
The door shuddered under the weight of the blaze. Cracks of light broke through, searing, molten. His breath came fast and shallow.
'It's over, I'm going to die, aren't I?'
He thought of all the times he'd declined invitations. The friends he never made. The laughter he never joined. If he had gone out, even once tonight, he wouldn't be here, cornered by flames.
---
The door collapsed inward, and the fire surged.
Flames danced around him, alive, almost mocking in their movements. His sweat evaporated before it could trickle down his skin. His veins burned. His scream tore out of him, raw and unrestrained, but the sound was swallowed instantly by the roar of the inferno.
He dropped to his knees, the numbness of surrender creeping in. But as he lifted his head through smoke-stung eyes, the impossible happened.
The fire shifted.
It no longer spread mindlessly. It swirled, spiraled, folding in on itself, like a living storm. The flames bent, curving upwards into a figure; tall, indistinct, its edges blurred as though seen through half-closed eyes in a dream.
Nelson choked on disbelief, 'Hallucinating. I'm already dying. That's all this is.'
Yet the figure stepped forward. The room seemed to hush in reverence. Its voice broke through the roar, layered and echoing, distant yet impossibly close.
"Do not fear, dreamer."
Nelson froze
"Your journey ends here... and begins elsewhere"
The figure raised his hand, and the flames surged brighter. His body felt weightless, pulled into the light. The pain ebbed, washed away, replaced by warmth.
And then, nothing but white.
---
He awoke to cold.
The sky above was star-strewn, sharper and clearer than any city night. His breath caught, though he had no control over it. His limbs were small, uncoordinated. The helpless cry of a newborn broke from his throat, high and frail.
Something cold pressed against his chest. A chain. A ring. Dark, glass-like, drinking in the light of the stars instead of reflecting it. It pulsed faintly, as though it breathed with him.
He lay on rough cloth, the stone doorstep beneath him biting with frost. The cries echoed weakly in the silence of night.
The door in front of him loomed large, weathered wood scarred by age. Slowly, achingly, it creaked open.
A man stepped out into view, lamplight spilling out behind him. He seemed to be in his sixties, hair streaked silver with age, his eyes dulled green by years of hardship yet softened by a quiet kindness. Yet something about him, made the air feel alive ,thin rivulets of shimmering water tracing along his forearms, curling like liquidthreads beneath the skin. Droplet sparks glimmered faintly on his wrists and fingers. He blinked, startled, as his gaze fell to the child swaddled at his feet.
For a moment, he simply stood there, the snow falling silently around him. Then he bent down, joints stiff, and reached out with trembling arms. His hands lingered before finally gathering the infant against his chest, pulling the small bundle closer to his warmth.
"Abandoned...?" he whispered to no one. His eyes caught on the ring around the baby's neck, and he frowned, but said nothing more.
With a weary sigh, the old man carried the child inside, closing the creaking door against the night.