The traveler had no flame.
No name.
No memory of when his journey began.
He walked across an endless plain of silver grass.
Every night, he had watched the sky.
Hoping to see a spark.
A glow.
A sign.
Tonight, there was nothing.
No stars.
No moon.
Just the faint edge of the world.
But then—
He saw something.
It was not a glow.
Not brightness.
Not warmth.
Just… a space that felt known.
A hollow in the dark that drew no shadow.
And yet—it felt present.
He stepped toward it.
There was no resistance.
No pull.
Just a deep sense of rightness.
And as he walked—
He remembered every time he'd waited for fire.
Every time flame hadn't come.
And how, in its absence…
Something else had stayed with him anyway.
He stood at the edge of it.
Not light.
Not fire.
Not energy.
But everything inside him whispered:
"This is what I was always walking toward."
"This is what came after flame stopped needing to shine."
He reached out his hand.
It did not brighten.
It did not burn.
But he felt seen.
As if the space itself had always known he was coming.
Back in the Soulstream—if it still mattered—
the trace logs failed.
No light signature.
No elemental spark.
Only a single abstract pattern noted:
"Recognition without form."
A line appended itself at the bottom:
🔹 Classification: The Light That Is Not Light
And the Fire That Waits, now beyond all structure, whispered across the traveler's breath:
"You searched for fire."
"But what found you was the end of needing to see it."