The flame didn't die.
It waited.
That was the worst part.
Mason had expected it to vanish after some symbolic moment—some flicker, some burst, some whisper of finality.
But the red flame stayed.
Soft. Steady. Knowing.
And beside it, the match.
Still etched with that word: TAKE
He didn't touch it for hours.
Just stared.
He made coffee. Let it go cold.
He opened his front door. Left it ajar for a full minute. Watched the street.
Nothing came.
No cars.
No mail.
No joggers.
It was as if the world had drawn a circle around his house and whispered:
Not yet.
He walked the halls.
The rooms felt… thinner.
Not smaller, more transparent.
As if the walls weren't just drywall and insulation anymore, but some gauze between dimensions. Sound carried strange now. Echoed when he didn't speak.
His reflection didn't always mimic him anymore.
He stopped trusting mirrors completely after he passed one in the hallway and saw his other self still standing there, one second too long.
At noon, he opened a drawer in the hallway he hadn't touched in years.
Inside: letters.
Old ones. Some unopened. Others yellowed.
Junk mail, bills, and catalogs.
And one envelope.
Red.
Sealed with wax.
He didn't remember receiving it.
He didn't remember not receiving it.
The seal was a flame. Hand-pressed.
Inside: no letter.
Just a slip of paper.
Two words:
"It begins."
Mason folded the note and set it beside the candle.
Then he picked up the match.
It was warm.
Of course it was.
Everything in this place was new.
Even things that shouldn't be—walls, mirrors, paper, dreams.
Especially dreams.
He turned the match over in his fingers. It was etched deeper than the last ones. The word "TAKE" almost burned into the wood itself.
He whispered the word aloud.
Just to hear it.
Just to feel what it did to his voice.
"Take."
The flame of the red candle leaned toward him.
Not a flicker.
A gesture.
Like a nod.
Or a bow.
He stepped forward.
Held the match in both hands.
But he didn't strike it.
Not this time.
Instead, he lowered it into the flame.
And the candle absorbed it.
Like it was never wood at all.
Just memory.
The room pulsed.
Not violently.
Rhythmically.
Like breath. Like blood.
The walls expanded. Receded. Expanded again.
He felt a vibration in his feet—low, deep, and not entirely from the house.
Something beneath.
Something waking up.
Or remembering.
He turned around.
Every window in the house was dark now.
Curtains fluttered.
Not from wind.
From presence.
Then the doors opened.
All at once.
Front door.
Back door.
Closet.
Basement.
Attic.
Not swung open.
Unlatched.
An invitation, not a threat.
He didn't hear it—
He felt it:
"Go."
So he did.
He walked to the front door.
Stepped through it.
And the street was gone.
In its place: a forest.
Not a new one.
The one from childhood.
The one where he used to go with his father.
The one that had burned down fifteen years ago.
But here it was—alive.
Perfect.
He walked the dirt trail barefoot.
Each step soundless.
The air thick with woodsmoke and pine and—
Singing.
Far off.
High and hollow.
Like a child's voice echoing in a tunnel.
He followed it.
Because that's what you do when a path appears.
You walk it.
Even when you know you shouldn't.
Especially then.
The forest opened into a clearing.
And in the center stood—
The chair.
Old. Wooden. Familiar.
Emily wasn't in it.
But someone was.
Someone with Mason's face.
Older.
Weathered.
Smiling.
The red candle burned on the armrest.
The other Mason nodded once.
"Sit."
He didn't argue.
Didn't hesitate.
He crossed the clearing.
Sat down in the chair.
The candle flickered once.
And then the trees caught fire.
Not with destruction.
With light.
Dozens of flames, rising like stars from every branch, every root, every memory.
It didn't burn him.
It bathed him.
It baptized him.
And in that moment, Mason knew:
He had taken the flame.
And now—
He would carry it.