The fire in the main room never goes out. It doesn't need fuel — Eliot adds logs out of habit, not necessity. The fire burns at whatever intensity the room requires. Late-night conversations, it's low and warm. Tense silences, it crackles and pops. Moments of genuine connection, it steadies into something that sounds, almost, like breathing.
The fire is the cabin's heartbeat. It is the one constant. Everything else changes — the rooms, the books, the objects — but the fire is always there, always burning, always warm. In a space defined by uncertainty and shifting reality, the fire is the one true thing.
Mitchell will try to understand how it works. He will fail. Some things don't have mechanisms. Some things just burn.