Hearth

The city crumbled down to bones, but the fireplace remained… bricks unmarred, fire warm, waiting. Ash coated the streets like snow. Footprints led inward, but never away.

We hung the stockings ourselves, heavy with gifts no hands remembered buying, proof that even ruin rewards devotion.

We did not save our homes.

We saved the ritual.

We fled gods, family, and neighbors alike, dragging devotion with us until it learned a new name. Now we kneel in the ruins—we are soot-stained and grateful, praying not to be spared—only to be sold to.