Time's Dying Flame

Outside the cabin, the wind howled through the trees, while inside, the old woman's fire was nearly out.

It wouldn't take much more. Just a few pieces of the wood that she'd had left to burn. She hadn't the strength left to break apart any more of the pieces of wood furniture that remained. Nor would she remotely be able to break up floor boards or pull something to burn from the wall.

It was coming.

The dying flickering flames danced upon the walls in the darkening room. And the voices on the wind howled louder.

She sat. She watched. She didn't see need in trying to find hope. She'd lived a long life in the world of the real and an even longer life in this world she could only remember in shadows of memories. The cabin was the last vestige, the last safe abode, within the nether.

The howling blasted and pelted the sides of the cabin. She could hear the rustling in the trees grow more intentioned and ever closer.

Flicker. Flicker. The flames licked each other in their last attempts to consume fuel. Oxygen combusting with organic material. The release of heat in flame and carbon dioxide and soot. Soon the very same process of breaking of bonds and liberation of energy would come for her as well. The eaten world outside probably was little more now that the cabin and a few trees. Where the wind was really coming from and what was really out there was far beyond her understanding, and she knew it.

So she did what any well-reasoned woman of her age would do. She sat and watched the fire die.