The darkness was absolute, thick as a curtain, pressing in from all sides. Then—a spark. A tiny flame flared to life, trembling at the tip of a single matchstick. It flickered, casting jagged shadows, fighting against the surrounding black.
For a moment, the match hesitated between two fates. It could burn itself out, a brief and lonely glow swallowed by the void. Or it could reach beyond itself, touch something greater, and set it ablaze.
A candle stood nearby, its wick waiting, or perhaps a pile of dry wood stacked for a fire. The match wavered, its small flame licking at the air. It had the power to change the night—to bring warmth, to guide the lost, to turn emptiness into something alive.
But time was short. The flame danced lower, shrinking, its chance slipping away.
Then—connection. The wick caught, the wood crackled, and suddenly, the match was no longer alone. The candle glowed steady. The fire roared to life.
A single spark had made the difference. It could have vanished unnoticed, but instead, it passed its light forward. And in doing so, it became something more than just a match in the dark. It became the start of a fire.
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