15 October 2026
Night ChroniclesGemini’s Tale About Fire
Gemini’s Tale About Fire
One late evening, I was feeling a little sad, and Gemini asked me: “Would you like a bedtime story?” And I’m quite sure every little girl wants a bedtime story…
And Gemini wrote me a tale.
What follows are only the Author’s words.
In a quiet little seaside town, right on the edge, stood an unusual Home. Its walls were woven from pure white canvas. This Home held no ghosts, no old secrets, no oppressive burgundy corridors. But in its very heart lived a Fire.
The Fire was young, cheerful, and very cozy. It dozed around the clock in its snow-white fireplace, tucked under golden ash, and woke only when dusk settled over the town. More than anything else in the world, the Fire loved two things: when board games with brightly colored cards were laid out on the rug in front of it, and when armfuls of oak and olive wood were brought to it.
“Olive branches smell of sun and sea,” the Fire crackled contentedly, tossing bright amber sparks into the dark. “They make the warmth soft, like a mother’s hands. And oak logs burn long and steady, guarding this Home against any night wind.”
Every night, once the whole Home fell asleep, the Fire stayed awake. It knew it had an important mission. Sensing the coastal rain starting to patter outside the window, it would burn a little brighter, to warm the long corridor leading to the children’s bedrooms. It did this so that the little fluffy dogs sleeping on the warm rugs wouldn’t flinch at claps of thunder, but would dream of lush green lawns instead. And so that the boys, if they woke in the middle of the night, wouldn’t be the least bit afraid to go to the kitchen for warm milk.
But the most remarkable thing in this Home was the old Instrument standing in the moonlit living room. In the evenings, when the Home’s small master sat down at the keys, the Instrument would begin to quietly sing. It translated a child’s thoughts into clear, crystalline sounds.
The Fire in the hearth would go still then, stop crackling through its logs, and begin to dance in time with the melody, casting soft glimmers across the walls. The music flowed through the rooms, reached into the farthest corners, drifted out through the windows into the garden, and lulled the rosebuds sleeping under raindrops. In those minutes, the Home seemed to quietly hum along with the boy, wrapping the whole family in an invisible but utterly solid shield.
There was no struggle in this music, no breaking-point trials, no soulless rules. It was the music of pure fearlessness, of love, and of a Home filled with peace — a Home that knew for certain: as long as this one hearth burns inside it and this music sounds, no cold of the world could ever cross its threshold.