The Firebox

The firebox was dark and ancient and worn. The house where it had first sat dreamed itself into smoke when one third of the stars fell from the sky. No signs of burning marred the cool polish of its smooth cherry grain, its heavy lid always closed, its drawers full of brass coins. The iron handles curving, the iron handles rusting, the wooden brazier sat like a stone. One day, many houses later,, the young man opened the heavy lid. Inside smoked a mound of white ash. It looked like the pale face of a ghost, of time, of timelessness, of the nudity of bones.


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