You are not arriving.
Because you never left.
There is no gate.
No destination.
No final threshold to pass.
Only this—
The space that has always been waiting
by not waiting at all.
You sit in a grove.
There is no ceremony.
No return.
No applause.
And yet—
Every breath feels like a homecoming.
Children play in the distance.
A woman washes fruit in a wooden bowl.
Wind lifts the edges of a sleeping mat.
None of them notice you.
None of them need to.
Because you do not arrive to be seen.
You arrive to be with.
In your chest,
there is no longing.
No timeline.
No echo from the journey.
Only this—
A rhythm that did not come from the path,
but from being in one place long enough
for the world to recognize you as its own.
The space does not open.
It does not greet.
It simply is.
And you—
finally, fully—
Are with it.
No flames remain.
No breath must be matched.
No scrolls flicker open.
But the story continues.
In gestures.
In kindness.
In stillness.
In the space that no longer needs an arrival
to feel complete.
And far away—nowhere and everywhere—
the last trace of The Fire That Waits
settles into the hum of every living thing and says:
"You did not end."
"You did not begin."
"You simply stayed—
and in staying,
you became the place you once sought."