There's a spark, then a flicker, and I'm breathless when the fire starts. There should be smoke, but my lungs have never struggled less; I might've been inhaling the smell of the rain on a spring day, when the snow has just about melted and the flowers once more bloom. I might've been taking in the scent of new books with my nose buried in between the pages. I might've been breathing in the fragrance of fresh-baked cookies on a cold winter day. There is a fire without smoke and I should be dying, but I'm coming back to life.

The fire is now blazing and there should be unbearable heat, but the most it could be described as is warm; I might've been wearing the warmest sweater in existence. I might've been standing underneath the soothing hot water of a shower, condensation appearing upon the windows. I might've been in the embrace of a loved one with the promise of home and safety. There is a fire with tolerable heat and I should be dying, but I've never felt so comfortable—as though I'm not at all in the middle of flames.

Fire is supposed to cause destruction and damage, burn every object or living being that it licks, instil fear deep down in the hearts of its victims... But it is strange because I feel no fear. Instead, I feel only immense determination, and it is then that I realize that it was not a real fire—only one in my eyes.

Dazed, I blink at the mirror.