Go into the house and light the fire. Light the fire in the room where your grandmother sits, silently rocking on the worm eaten chair by the cold hearth. Go into the house and light a fire in the attic where the ghosts and demons cavort and torment through the chill of centuries, their hearts suffocated in the tight fist of fear. Go into the house and light the fire.
Those who are fires are meant to burn. Those who are hearts are meant to love. This is how it should be. And I wonder what the fiery heart would do. Some burn like a hearth, others like a conflagration.