The Silent Hearth

There was once a hearth that did not burn.
Not because it lacked wood, or kindling, or care—
but because the flame had grown silent.

It had once roared with laughter, flickered with touch,
held the echoes of stories told in the hush of night.
But over time, the fire dimmed—not extinguished,
just… quiet.

The Keeper of the Hearth remained.
He swept the ashes, arranged the logs,
waited for the spark that never came.
He did not rage. He did not beg.
He simply stayed.

Visitors passed by and saw only stillness.
They did not see the warmth that had once danced there,
or the way the Keeper’s hands trembled
each time he reached for a match.

The hearth was not cold—it was waiting.
Not for fuel, but for presence.
Not for heat, but for choosing.

And in that silence, the Keeper began to wonder:
Was the hearth ever truly his?
Or had he only been its steward,
tending a flame that belonged to someone else?

Still, he stayed.
Because even a silent hearth is sacred.
Because love, once given, does not vanish—it lingers.
And because sometimes, the act of staying
is the only flame left.