I shake the box once, listening to the dry rattle, a sound like trapped rain. The next match slides free, pale and waiting, its head rough against my thumb. For a moment I hesitate, aware of the quiet around me, the way silence seems to lean closer when it senses intention. I strike the match, and the flare blooms instantly—bright, impatient, alive. The flame bends low, bowing to the wind as if it knows it won’t be here long.
Smoke curls upward, carrying a sharp, bitter scent that settles in my chest. I watch the wood darken, the flame eating its way downward with calm certainty. There’s something honest about it, the way it gives everything it has without apology. When the heat finally bites too hard, I let go. The match hits the ground, still glowing, and I end it with my shoe. The box feels lighter now, but my thoughts are heavier, smoldering quietly, waiting for their own spark.
ns216.73.216.33da2
and then Add to home screen.