I saw her sitting by the fire.

Not just near it—

with it.

Like they were old friends.

She smiled at the flames

like they were telling her a secret.

And for a second,

I think they were.

I don’t know if she controls the fire,

or something in her head just broken

She laughed when it burned her.

Like pain wasn’t punishment—

just part of the conversation.

I wanted to ask why.

Why smile at something

that leaves you in ash?

But she just looked up,

quiet and calm,

and said,

“He never meant to burn me.

That’s just how he exists.”

She didn’t look like someone who needed saving.

She only told me,

They feel a little lonely, sometimes.

This girl—

Something is wrong.

Why treat the flame like a friend.

But the fire was too hot.

She was too bright.

It made my eyes sting

So I turned away.

I said nothing.

And left her there—

with the fire,

and her quiet, terrifying peace.

   —the traveler