In the quiet hour before dawn, the camp fire still breathes low, its smoke curling up between the bare branches. A blade of cold metal catches the first light. Outside, the wind begins to stir the dry grass, and far above, the last stars dim one by one. By the river, water laps the stones in patient rhythm. The electric hum of the old lamp flickers once — an ice crystal falls from the eave, and the world, for a moment, listens. Type here. Sprinkle in fire, smoke, metal, wind, water, electric, ice, or stars — the words remember what they mean.