The Gift

In that final moment,

he stood on the edge—

the precipice, cold and infinite.

The stone beneath him,

ancient, worn,

yet steady as destiny.

Snow fell—

the weight of forgotten things,

each flake a whisper

of what had passed.

The air was thin,

sharp as broken glass—

but it could not touch him now.

The earth trembled,

not in fear,

but in understanding.

There, where time held its breath,

he felt no cold—

only the warmth

of something older than breath.

A pulse of light,

rising from the deepest part of him,

brushing the fabric of the world.

Not life—

but knowing.

Not heat—

but flame, silent, unyielding.

He was not a man,

but a memory turned to light,

a song the stars forgot to sing.

His soul, shaped by fire,

burned brighter than it ever had before.

He became the White Flame—

not what he had been,

but more.

A presence in the air,

the space between breaths,

a rustle of pages,

a hum of strings

from another world.

Here,

still here,

transformed—

a flame leaning forward,

unending.