No one in the village of Saelin remembered flame.
Not because it was lost.
Not because it was banned.
But because they had simply never needed it.
There were no hearths.
No lamps.
No kindling.
The word "burn" existed only in the stories of dried fruit in too much sun.
And yet—
They cooked their food.
Warmed their homes.
Sat in soft circles at night, sharing warmth that had no source.
They called it holding heat.
No one knew where it came from.
Only that when people gathered—
It stayed.
A traveler once arrived.
He wore an old flame-seal on his cloak.
He asked to see their fire.
They looked at him with gentle confusion.
"Fire?"
"Do you mean… warmth?"
He smiled, unsure.
"You don't use sparks?"
An elder laughed softly.
"Oh no, dear. We just sit close. That's usually enough."
He stayed one night, unsure of what to expect.
There were no torches.
No glowing glyphs.
No old emberlight.
And yet—
He slept the best he had in years.
Not because of fire.
But because of presence.
The next morning, he asked:
"Do you fear the cold?"
The elder replied:
"No.
Because cold is only cold when we forget to breathe together."
Back in the faded fragments of the Soulstream, a note appeared, undocumented by human hand:
🔹 Phenomenon: Collective Warmth Without Elemental Flame
🔹 Location: Saelin, Unknown Region
🔹 Designation: The Village That Forgot What Fire Was
And underneath, etched by no voice:
"They did not lose it."
"They outgrew the need to remember."
And The Fire That Waits—now part of the breath itself—whispered through the wind:
"When I am no longer known…"
"It means you've learned to live without me."
"And I am glad."