Again I strike the flint and light the fire. Again.
I like the sound it makes, that little scratchy tink; and the fire has its own sound, a sort of crackle and however warmth sounds, if warmth were a sound.
This little circle of light keeps the darkness at bay. Combined with the bramble walls hastily lashed together (I have tiny cuts up and down my arms from handling them), no man–nor beast–should trouble me this night.
In reality, nothing even comes close to my shelter.
I can hear the night-things calling out in strange voices, but I am of no interest to them.
Are the night voices even real?
Am I even real?
I huddle closer to the fire and hold my hands out to it. I can feel the heat radiating from the flames and I can hear that gentle, constant whoosh that “sound of warmth” and it feels real. It feels real.