Once, this flame burned steady—its soft glow casting shadows across weathered hands and windowpanes. It sat by the sill every night, watching Clearwater Lake darken into mirror and mystery. Someone kept it lit. Someone waited beside it. Maybe a trapper. Maybe a widow. Maybe just a soul who couldn’t sleep without watching the water.

But now the lamp is empty. Its wick is cold. And yet—on this night of skyfire and silence—it feels as though the flame has moved skyward. The aurora dances where the smoke once curled. Light is still here, just no longer ours to tend.

The lake forgets nothing. The stars forget nothing. And maybe neither does the lamp.