I dreamt the fire never ended

I was standing at the edge of a ridge, not running, just watching. The flames weren’t eating the trees—they were breathing them. Smoke curled like old letters in a drawer, and I could hear the crew’s voices from years ago, laughing over coffee that wasn’t there. No one came to put it out. Not because they couldn’t, but because it didn’t need to be. The land was remembering how to burn. And when I woke, my mouth tasted like ash and something sweet—like burnt sugar or a name I used to know.