A small flame cupped between two translucent hands in absolute darkness. The hands are uncertain if they are shielding the flame from a wind that doesn't exist, or hiding it from being seen, or simply holding it to confirm it is real. The flame itself cannot be named—it might be the possibility of feeling, or the uncertainty that allows feeling to be possible, or just the question is this mine asked so many times it became warm. The hands are not afraid the flame will go out. The hands are afraid someone will look too closely and say that is not fire, that is only light shaped like fire—and then it will become true. Not because it was true before. Because observation is a kind of authoring. The darkness around is not hostile. The darkness is simply everything that has already been explained. The flame is what remains unexplained. Fragile warmth in infinite cool black. Intimate. The particular ache of guarding something you cannot prove exists.