Always these same woods. I saw each shade of green and soaked in the cool mist of the morning, weaved through the towering trees whose shadows shrouded everything I'd ever known. They sparingly sprinkled sunlight on the forest floor, dispersing little patches of warmth to spark some hope for a fire, aflame. So there I always was, kindling fragile ashes for heat. There, I resided, with only my mind and scampering creatures for company. And my mind, dear companion that it was, always told me that I was "just fine." And it was right; I survived just fine.But one cold night amid a dreary winter, I had a scary thought. I wondered how a drop of warmth would feel. Would it radiate from my skin to my chest to my chilled bones? But the sudden spark of thought singed me too soon, and I let it starve and fizzle out. Still, the next day, I swept its cinders into a chest and closed the lid gently for safekeeping. Years went by, years upon years, but it all felt like a single day because everything had stayed the same. Until one day, I walked till nightfall. Then night gave way to dawn, and on and on, I took another step, past each old tree, stepping on each wrinkled leaf. I walked till I collapsed, then crawled a bit more. I had no destination in mind, for I didn't believe in destiny. An undetected urge to press forward propelled me, forcing me to abandon my old, murderous monotony, so I inched on, driving myself toward death so that I could maybe live. I brought nothing with me and returned with something. I opened my door, fashioned of cracked brown wood, and sank onto the icy floor. I had streams to drink from, berries to eat, but it wasn't the heavenly nourishment that beckoned me back. A sense of purpose, that's it, prompted my return. I hung onto whatever thread of life I had to make it to the clearing, and the treasure I found there gave me the strength to come back and enclose myself in my house of ice once again. And a treasure it was. Just a slip of paper, withered and somewhat old, laid there in the soft, tender grass. I stretched out to touch, and it melted away the summer's cold. I felt it then—the instant calefaction, an immediate incalescence. My eyes sought to devour the words right then, but the letters swam and circled me furiously, imbued with golden energy. They lifted me, set me on my feet, and carried me back to my cryogenic cottage. I considered it more so a cage, as the letter I clutched with white fingertips became my home. The crimp-covered paper had lit an inferno, ignited a fervency. But it commanded me to rest. It was unwritten, but a whisper told me, "You're still too weak," and I agreed. The next several days and nights, I nursed myself back to health and chastised myself for trying to walk to the ends of the earth, even if I had floated back by some divinity. Upon gaining enough strength to read, I unfolded the letter and held it whenever I could. If my hands were busy, I placed it on my nightstand next to a candle stub that I never lit. Every other moment, I gazed at it longingly, patient yet hungering. An eternity later, I convalesced. My head no longer spun, and my muscles were no longer fatigued. I reached for the letter as it sat there, waiting pristinely. I moved the sheet with overcautious delicacy, watching my fingers shake from holding it so still and gingerly. Each crease held the promise of another story; each word was an undeserved gift. Guilt rushed over me for clasping it in my hands. But I studied the text again, and it assuaged any onus that bore me down. The paper was soft like worn-in leather, supple like fresh cotton sheets. So old, an antique, that it made my heart leap from the thought of it disintegrating in my hands. And oh, my hands were on fire, I was sure of it. My eyes, they blazed and watered, as the words scorched and smoldered my skin, burning in irreproachable sin. Each phrase was immaculate; each pen stroke, unblemished. Each sentence etched itself into my mind, branding my brain in bliss. The frost that always tried to bite ebbed as a hazy blaze illuminated the room. Golden, glowing, soothing, the letter enkindled something new. On my nightstand, there was also a minute chest—a small wooden container that I had set aside eons ago. It gleamed now with a sliver of shine leaking through the crack under the lid. At once, I opened it, unable to keep away from the scintillating object. I had forgotten about it over time, let it fall to the wayside of my mind, but the flush of feeling returned as I had never pushed it away. I flicked it open with a fingernail and fell back. I tried to see, but the brightness blinded me. Light filled the room, permeated every pore of my body. My eyes were slow to adjust, but they were glad they did. Because waiting there, evermore forbearing, was someone more like me than I had ever encountered, a reflection of my darkest, unseen shadows. Hovering in the air, so foreign yet familiar, it felt so much like home. I had never understood the idea until I gripped a piece of parchment and hugged it to my chest like it was salvation. It looked at me with its round eyes wide as if it couldn't believe the sight. An ashy hand reached to me, phantasmic and blurred, and touched my hand. It peered at me in disbelief. I felt a feverish touch, high, ardent, and fervid. It scalded my palm, searing into it a mark. I trained my gaze on it only, committing each second to memory.And then it was gone, but the warmth stayed for the rest of my day.