They came quietly, just as their ancestors once had—
barefoot steps through soft pine needles, the hush of night wrapping around them like a prayer.
By the edge of the lake, beneath the towering pines, they gathered—
not for spectacle, but for remembrance.
The moon that rose above the treetops was no ordinary moon.
It blazed like a sacred ember, alive with the breath of generations.
The lake mirrored its fire, as if the sky had bent down to kiss the earth.
Children leaned into their mothers. Elders closed their eyes and listened.
The forest held its breath.
Then, like smoke curling into song, a hum began—low and ancient.
It was the Song of the First Ember,
a tale passed through bloodlines and fire circles.
A story of when the moon gifted fire to the people, not just for warmth,
but for memory—for resilience.
Each voice that joined the hum did not sing alone.
They sang with the ones who came before.
And the stars, listening from the deep blue sky, seemed to pulse in rhythm.
In that moment, no one felt lost.
Each soul shimmered, reflected in the glowing water—
a spark in the darkness,
a part of the great flame of existence.
By the time dawn stretched her fingers across the sky, the song had faded.
But in their hearts, the ember remained—
a quiet flame to guide them through seasons of change,
a reminder:
Even in the deepest night, we carry the light.
