It begins as a spark; a tiny, lonely spark. Hesitantly, that spark jumps to another, and a flame is created. The flame burns just a little brighter, then a little brighter still. It begins to burn deep, changing its course thousands of times along the way. But still it grows, brighter and brighter. The fire, the warmth, spreads. It engulfs, like a fire raging through a deadwood forest. It sets things ablaze, things that never dared hope to burn.
Oh, how that fire burns. It is a fire that fears neither daylight nor the deep shadows of the night; its flames ignite the darkness. Burning bright as the stars, it cauterizes old wounds. It burns.
Then the rain comes.
Rain that drenches and puts out the fire; the wildfire simply disappears. It does not spew excuses or linger on, clinging to old memories. The flame just dies, suddenly and irrevocably.
Ashes are all that is left. Black dust that coats everything, soot that never washes away. Strangers come with hearts yearning to help. But no matter how hard they scrub, the ashes remain.
Days, months, years, centuries they remain; fire created them, and fire alone can destroy them.
A tiny, lonely spark comes along. This spark is different; it's not afraid of ashes. The spark searches relentlessly for its other half, sifting and digging through miles of black dust. It finds its love.
It uses the ashes as its kindling, lighting a fire that burns brighter than the sun.
That daring little spark.