I’ve never seen a human face.

Well, that’s not entirely true. I’ve seen my own plenty of times. When it rains here, and the storm batters my dingy shelter and threatens to put out my campfire, I can see a rippling reflection in the muddy puddles. I have learned how to weather the storms; they have come ever since I can remember, and I am a survivor.

Tonight, though, the weather is calm. A sweet, cool breeze carrying the scent of freshwater and earth wafts over me. It is the kind of calm that whispers to your mind that there must be something wrong — there must be some unseen danger or a lost item, just out of reach of the firelight. It’s the type of calm that whispers many things. It taunts me. It assures me that it’s safe beyond the light; that I could so easily fashion a torch and leave the circles I’ve worn around the perimeter. But I know better.

I’ve tried, you know. Many, many attempts, failed for one reason or another. Panic overtaking me, an unseen force shoving me backwards into my safe space… there are a multitude of reasons for my solitude. Lack of trying is not one.

I push the coals around the fire, and hope beyond hope that there is more wood tomorrow. The fire will last through the night; it always does despite how low it seems sometimes. But it will, and when I wake in the morning, there will be some firewood waiting for me, as always. It’s never as much as I would like, but I make do.

As I tend to the fire, a new smell enters my nostrils. It’s smoke, and not from my own fire. I grimace and turn around to see, off in the distance, a bonfire. It reaches to the heavens with a blinding radiance that sets my teeth on edge. I’ve seen plenty of these fires before, and the figures tending this one seem to relish the process. A seemingly endless supply of firewood, stacked so neatly I could scream, is off to one corner.

The figures are milling about the fire, dancing, and generally seeming to enjoy each other’s company. Before I can turn away in frustration, a figure separates from the others. The lone figure pushes their way through the throngs, in my direction. Normally, I would have paid no mind; these fires tend to last far longer than I could be bothered to watch, and who cares what faceless beings a mile away are up to?

But this figure continues their journey, right to the edge of the light. They are staring, scanning the darkness, and I see my own fire brighten, despite myself. My firelight is betraying me, the bastard. I know how this would go. I would finally gather the courage to grab a torch from my fire, and, after many deep breaths, push my way through the smothering blackness, only for something terrible to happen, and to be stranded at my fire once again, sore, cold, and ultimately lonely once again.

As I watch this figure’s silent vigil, they suddenly lock eyes with me. I am in awe; when you spend so much of your life in solitude, you forget that you are visible — that you can be perceived. While I cannot see their face, their body betrays… excitement? Is that excitement I sense? Such a foreign feeling, but I feel a stirring in my chest that seems to mimic their own. I see them glance about, as if searching for something, and then they dart back into the fray.

I must have imagined the connection. I must have been mistaken; I am invisible, my fire far too weak to be seen all the way out here. The feeling in my chest sags, and chills to match the cold of the night, the darkness out there slithering its way into my fire. I turn to face the quickly cooling embers and stoop to throw another log on the fire. It is my last for the evening, and I had hoped to save it for tomorrow, but I will just have to hope that there will be enough to get through.

Poking and prodding at the fire, I shiver, feeling the cold of despair wrack my frame once again. I am falling again, like I had hoped I would not do. My eyes meet my canteen, and I cannot help but to stare at it, wondering how it would feel to pour it all over my fire, to be rid of it and to let the abyss collapse onto me, would I even be able to pour the whole canteen or would I stop, be too chicken-shit like all those times I’ve tried and failed to go out into the dark, to understand what is out there, what the hell are those big fires all about, and would it even matter, would I be able to comprehend, would connecting with those faceless figures be all I had imagined, are they even like me, and do I even matter —

Instantly, my mind stills, and I feel a pulling at the nape of my neck, beckoning me to turn around. I cannot resist, and I am met with the vision of the same bonfire, and the figure at the edge. They hold a torch in their hand, and they are staring right at me, waving.

I stand frozen in place, not knowing what to do with myself. Should I wave back? That seems like the correct response, but what is this figure, and why does it see me? Should I run, snatching what little fire I can and bolt out into the dark? Surely I could find another home, one farther away from all those bonfires, and finally be at peace. Lonely, but at peace.

Now the wind brings a faint sound. I have heard this sound before, long ago, when I had been hallucinating my own bonfire, and had my imaginary friends surrounding me. It was a sound they made to me, and it made me feel safe; it made me feel seen, and… loved. I think it was my name. My true name, the one that only I knew, and that I was sure beyond sure that no one else would know.

The figure has stopped waving. I see their form heave in a deep breath, and they plunge themselves into the night, faint torch in hand.

If I were to run, I should run. Now is the time. I should bring my canteen, just in case, but I can build a new fire somewhere else.

But something anchored me to the ground then. My name; it had been so long since I heard my name. Had I ever really heard it? Or had I daydreamed it? That really didn’t matter now, as I had heard it come from that shadowy figure; I was sure of that. So I wait, less than patient, pacing as I often do.

Some time passes, and I sense an approach. The darkness lifts, just a bit, and I call out, wary. I hear no reply, but now I see the outline of the figure. I stand, stone still, and my fire shapes itself toward the figure. Butterflies ram my stomach, causing a rising feeling of panic to bubble up my spine. But I stand firm, and the figure hoists their torch higher, and, for the second time in my life, my name passes through the air between us and nestles in my chest.

The figure… smiles. They are smiling, walking toward my fire. My name looks up at me from my chest, smiling too, assuring me that this is okay. It is a small thing, just hatched, but I know this new feeling is trustworthy. Around me, I see the firelight brighten, when I realize that it is no longer my campfire that lights my way. It is this new… way of being, inside me. The figure is still smiling, and I realize that they hold no torch. Their firelight burns brightly out of their chest, lighting their path.

For the first time, the darkness does not smother me, and I walk forward toward the figure, so close that…

I can see their face.