Winter settled over the hills like a clean sheet of glass.
Ashmere's ruins were almost gone now, buried under snow and silence. The local papers called it a miracle that the ground had cooled so quickly after years of smoldering. No one could explain it; no one tried for long.
Luke and Iris stayed in a rented cabin at the edge of town. The days were quiet—coffee, long walks through the frozen fields, the sound of her humming when she thought he wasn't listening. The air smelled of pine and smoke from their small wood stove.
For the first time, the fire felt ordinary.
Still, some nights, Luke would wake before dawn and find the cabin faintly lit with gold. The glow came from Iris's skin, soft as candlelight, fading when she opened her eyes.
"I thought it was gone," he whispered once.
"It is," she said. "What's left just remembers."
By spring, the story of the "miracle hill" had turned into folklore. Tourists came to see where the fire had died, where no grass would grow but the air was always a few degrees warmer.
They left offerings—candles, letters, pieces of broken mirrors. Luke tried not to read the notes, but one caught his eye.
For the ones we've lost. May they find warmth, not flame.
He smiled faintly. The world, it seemed, still believed in the fire—but not in fear.
On the last night before they planned to leave for the coast, Iris stood by the window, watching the reflection of the moon in the glass.
"Do you ever wonder if it's really over?" she asked.
Luke came up behind her, resting a hand on her shoulder. "The fire's quiet. That's enough."
She nodded, her breath fogging the glass. For a heartbeat, the fog formed words—three simple ones—before vanishing again.
We remember you.
Luke saw it too, but neither of them spoke.
He drew her close, and together they watched the reflection fade into darkness.
Outside, the snow melted in slow rivulets, carrying faint glimmers of gold down the hill and into the earth—where something ancient, now gentle, kept its promise.
And in the distance, a single light flickered once in a shard of forgotten glass, then went still.