My thumb digs into the grooved metal of the striker wheel, pressing and flicking to ignite my lighter. It sputters and clicks, trying to form that precious flame, and then it dies. So I switch to matches. My fingers tremble as I fish out one of the wooden sticks, scraping it against the side of ...

A dying fire burns in the hearth, grey smoke unfurling and twisting into the open air. Dust particles alight beneath the breaking of a new day. And he sits in his chair, old, decrepit, half-mad, as old thoughts bring fresh wounds. The first thought is of her smile: how it crinkled her face and brought ...