The last light, refusing to go out
A family falls asleep around their campfire on the last camping night of autumn. The fire dies. All that's left is one small ember in the ash — a cracked charcoal shell around a stubborn orange heart — and out past the ring of stones, the frost starts crawling toward a child's blanket.
He has no flame, no legs, no voice, no face. He has one night, a plain of cold ash to cross, a pile of kindling six inches away that might as well be six miles — and, when his glow runs lowest, a frost-dusted moth who remembers who warmed her first.
He doesn't relight the fire. He becomes it.