Last Campfire, Last Breath
Night pressed in like a lid across the lake as I shouldered my pack and picked a stubborn piece of shore where the pines frowned down at the water. This was survival on purpose: a single night, a map, a promise to mute the city with quiet borrowed from the trees. I set a ring of stones, struck a match, coaxed a flame that fidgeted, then steadied, a little sun in the dark. The fire licked the damp, and the smoke kept its own counsel, curling toward a stubborn slit in the clouded sky. Outside the glow, the forest waited, patient as a hunter, patient as a secret. I tell myself I am here to listen, to learn how to endure without a screen or a schedule.
As the minutes wore on, the flame began to falter. The wind leaned in, not gusting but listening, and the fire answered with a tired hiss. The lake gave a soft sigh, like a sleeping creature that forgot to wake. Then the hush grew heavy, as if the woods pressed closer, counting breaths beside mine. I checked the perimeter: a loop of footprints, a smear of mud that glistened with recent rain, and a smell of resin and earth that refused to vanish. The night wasn’t dark so much as thick with intention, as if the forest wanted to keep something alive by keeping me from leaving. I whispered a vow to keep the spark alive, to outlast the cold, to remember that warmth is a kind of courage.
The fire isn’t just warmth, it is a witness you can feed with breath.
- Footprints circle the camp, stepping in from the pines and retreating toward the dark.
- The smoke crawls, refusing to rise, as if the air itself wants to swallow the flame.
- A distant tapping keeps time with your heartbeat, always a heartbeat ahead of you.
- Whispers ride the wind, syllables stitched from the names of places you never meant to find.
From the black, a silhouette moved between the trunks, not running but gliding, a quiet shape outlined by the ember’s glow. It studied me with eyes that remembered different winters, and the breath of the woods pressed softly at my cheek. The last spark snapped, and with that silence the distinction between hunter and hunted dissolved. The forest offered a choice: vanish with the smoke, or answer the call with your own last breath. I stood, listened, and stepped deeper into the dark, choosing to become a rumor rather than a warning. When I finally moved, the night swallowed the glow and the world held its breath. Sometimes survival means learning to breathe when the flame dies, and to walk on even when the path is words you cannot pronounce.