Each moth recognizes its own flame

They say that moths who approach the kindred flame meant for them alone emerge not as ash but something jeweled, hollowed. Leathery wings dusty with fine powder, sweet resin, the flame amber-bright and forever preserved, golden liqueur burning without consuming. Each moth recognizes its own flame; instinct, yearning, warm spice that fits a wingspan precisely, honeyed glow. Custom-carved, waiting in shadows like perfectly formed holes in night's fabric. The desperate ones surrender to incineration, their remains falling like crushed petals and sooty silk. But the rare ones, the thieves among them, learn to pocket light itself and carry it home, their stolen fire echoing endlessly within soft chambers, transformed but breathing, burnished light cradled in a charred, earthy embrace