The Forge and the Hollow House

I was fire, born of iron and fury, thrown into the forge of my own undoing, where love twisted into something unrecognizable, where my hands, once steady, became fists clenched against the storm.

She was air, drifting through open windows, slipping between fingers that tried to hold her, a whisper, a ghost, a promise never kept. She built her house on shifting sands, filled its rooms with echoes and distractions, never staying long enough to see the dust settle.

I burned. I let the heat sear away the weakness, let the pain reshape me into something unbreakable, while she stood outside, watching the fire rage, too distant to feel its warmth, too afraid to step inside.

She wandered the halls of her hollow house, a place where love was an object left in the corner, covered in dust, while she chased the flickering lights outside the windows. Messages lighting up a screen, voices replacing silence, always moving, never seeing— never stopping long enough to face the truth staring back at her in the glass.

But I stayed. I let the heat consume me, let the flames carve me into something new. And when the fire finally dimmed, when the hammer fell for the last time, I stepped forward, forged, whole— ready to stand.

She is still running. Still searching for something she won’t name, still avoiding the wreckage of a home that was never built to last. And as I walk away from the embers, toward a world of my own making, I wonder—

Will she ever stop long enough to see what she lost?