Flamekeepers

The House

At the very edge of nowhere, where GPS signals got lazy and birds flew in circles like they were lost too, stood a house that had long since retired from polite society. It wasn’t haunted in the traditional sense—no creaking attic demons or moaning mirrors—but it did hum with the kind of lived-in drama you’d expect from a place that had seen love letters scribbled on napkins and arguments thrown like dishes.

The porch greeted you with a groan, but not a threatening one—more like the sigh of an old auntie who has seen too much and is mildly judging your shoes. Vines had taken liberties with the siding, curling in all the right (and wrong) places, like nature trying its hand at interior design. A shutter hung at a 45-degree angle, as though too emotionally exhausted to stay upright. Dust coated every surface with the kind of flair that screamed “vintage,” and inside, the smell was part wood, part memory, part “someone used to burn cinnamon candles here.”

The air was thick with stories. Not secrets—those were too sly—but stories. The kind that knew they were juicy and hung around waiting to be discovered. The kind of place where someone once danced barefoot at 2 a.m. and someone else probably cried while changing a lightbulb. The kind of place that had eavesdropped on every whispered “I love you” and every screamed “You don’t get it!”

And into this lived-in memory theatre walked an old man.

Not the kind you’d expect. He didn’t creak. He didn’t mutter. He had the aura of someone who had figured life out just enough to laugh at it. His boots thudded with the confidence of a man who still ate dessert first. His coat was rumpled but purposeful. A hat tipped low over amused eyes.

He wasn’t looking for treasure. He was looking for dust. For something to remind him that the world still left behind things worth finding.

That’s when he saw the envelope. Balanced on a shelf that looked like it would give up if someone breathed too hard near it. No name. No return address. Just the title, in ink that looked too bold to be old:

“What do you do with kids trying to win the world?”

He chuckled, because he already liked the tone. It smelled like mischief and sounded like someone who’d had just enough of someone else’s charm. He opened it, leaned against the fireplace like he was about to read aloud to a room full of invisible exes, and let the letter unfold.

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The Letter

What do you do with kids trying to win the world?

Well first, you stay the hell out of their way.

You let them build cathedrals out of Post-Its and design revolutions between sips of overpriced espresso. You don’t interrupt their monologues about disruption and scale. You simply nod. Maybe refill their coffee. Maybe remind them to eat once in a while. But mostly, you let them go.

Because some people weren’t built for middle lanes or middle grounds. They were made to run. To fidget. To love so deeply they forget they were trying to win anything at all. And honestly? The world needs more of them. It needs their restlessness, their wild metaphors, their inability to sit still in a room full of stupid.

What do you do with a boy like that?

Oh, darling, you watch.

You watch him pace like the world’s got secrets he hasn’t seduced yet. You listen when he talks in half-sentences and whole philosophies. You fall a little for the way he sighs after meetings and grins when no one’s watching. You memorize the exact moment he forgets to perform—just once—and shows you the softness beneath the smirk.

You won’t own him. God no. You don’t tame fire and call it yours.

But if you’re lucky, you get to stand close enough to feel the warmth. To toss a joke into the flames and hear it come back as poetry. To tease him about his tragic inability to rest, even while secretly admiring how fast his brain runs laps around yours.

And when he makes a joke that’s two layers too smart for the room, you laugh. Not because you got it right away—but because he knew you eventually would. And that’s the thing: he always waits for you to catch up.

What do you do with a thought like this?

You flirt with it. You raise one eyebrow and sip your coffee like you’re not completely hooked. You write long, sarcastic texts and delete half of them because he’ll read between the lines anyway. You pretend you’re not impressed. You pretend your heart didn’t do cartwheels when he quoted Auden while simultaneously fixing your printer.

And you know what?

You don’t fall. You lean. You stretch. You orbit.

Because falling would imply an end, and this kind of thing? It lingers. Like a song you didn’t mean to love, playing quietly in the background of every day since. The kind of connection that refuses to become a headline or a breakup text.

You let him win the world.

And when he does?

You send him a coffee. No name. Just a note.

You be kind.

So, what do you do with kids trying to win the world?

You let them try.

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The old man folded the letter with a grin he hadn’t worn in a while. He didn’t know who wrote it or who it was for, but it was deliciously clear who it was about.

And he liked her. Whoever she was. Smart. Sharp. Could probably eviscerate you with a sentence and then ask how your mum was doing. And him? He didn’t even know the boy, but he already missed him.

He placed the letter back exactly as he’d found it.

Then, as he turned to leave the house, he paused at the door, tipped his hat to the room, and with a smirk said:

“Well, ain’t that something” 

And the house, just for a moment, seemed to smile.

*****