Hearthside Warmth

I slipped back inside through the door flap, eager to shake off the biting night air. Resting near the hearth was an open iron lantern, its thick pillar candle dancing with a steady, crackling flame. I dropped onto the coarse woven rug, gripped the warm wrought-iron frame, and leaned right into the heat. The smell of honeyed beeswax and scorched iron filled my chest. When the wick spat a tiny ember against the soot-dusted metal, I grinned and soaked up every ounce of that fiery glow.