Bennings
The Man Who Felt The Coldest Fire
Cold was my cathedral. They built a bonfire where it once stood.
The cold was arithmetic—knowable. Fire’s what they didn’t see coming. I mapped blizzards like they were scripture, but when the infection seeped in, it didn’t burn. It hummed. Whispered. Unknit me. Now my hands are claws, but the storm still knows my voice.
What I'm Into: Mercury columns fracturing in the cold, the ache of unbroken ice, tracking storms that devour compasses
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