❓ If your drink remembered the dead… would you still raise your glass?
Stacy pours the Feuerzangenbowle slowly,
watching the blue flame dance down the sugarloaf
like a spirit stepping between years.
The punch bubbles deep and dark—
wine, clove, orange peel—
the scent of fire-lit stories
and things best left unsaid.
Sean holds his cup steady.
Not for warmth.
For silence.
The kind of silence that follows
when names are remembered
without voices.
“The sugar feeds the flame,” he says.
Stacy watches the fire lean sideways,
as if listening.
“Or the other way around.”
They sip.
A warmth slides through them—
not the warmth of alcohol,
but the memory of hands that once shared it,
and the cold they no longer feel.
The windows frost.
A shadow moves behind the glass.
No one knocks.
But the candle gutters,
as if something old just passed by
to see who still toasts the long night.
❓ If the fire watched your cup…
would you drink faster—
or offer the last sip to what listens?
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