Your flames left me frozen.

"If Time never halts, it remains eternally frozen. Yet, if it persists unceasingly, discerning its moments of stillness becomes a puzzle.

In the realm I inhabit, shaped yet not crafted by my hand, future and past are illusions, nonexistent. This timeless expanse, paradoxically, began and will inevitably cease just to do it again.

Here, the end precedes birth, and in its shadow, we exist. In this eternal twilight, the end looms, always out of reach, yet inescapable. Before our last breath, a new genesis murmurs. In this endless dawn, we live, perpetually beginning, never concluding. Fate, a consensus transcending the universe, eclipses us, enduring not by chance but necessity, a force destined to surpass even itself."

For in our realm, time, frozen as it may seem, is ultimately bound by its own fate: our infinite existence."

Ophelia laid down her pen, the soft scratch of its tip against the paper ceasing as she let out a sigh, tender and full of longing. For a fleeting moment, her heart stilled, her mind momentarily at peace in the midst of a world that seemed perpetually suspended. The room, bathed in the pale glow of twilight, lay quiet, save for the gentle rocking of the chair in which she sat.

A playful yet poignant gust of wind slipped through the partly open window, weaving whimsically across the room. It flirted and dimmed with the hearth's flames, coaxing them into a dance of shadows against the walls of the old house. Once a haven of laughter and warmth, the house now lay in a hushed wait, its silence a memoir to the time frozen since Lambert's departure.

Why? Why is everything so frozen. Why has time stopped? Time has frozen for me, yet the sun comes up everyday, and it goes down? No matter how often she tidied the house, prepared dinner for herself and the baby, or reorganized things, it all seemed in vain. Ensnared in an endless loop, as if time itself had crystallized into an infinite stillness. The scent of her pine candles had faded to a mere memory, their dwindling flames a silent testament to the passage of unnoticed days. Her words, once vivid and alive, now felt stagnant, as if frozen within the pages of her journal, never to escape.

The thought of venturing into town to publish her writings lingered in her mind. Yet, without Lambert by her side, the outside world felt daunting, almost uncharted. She wondered, would her words remain forever imprisoned in this frozen realm? Picking up her pen, she felt it thaw in her grasp, a fleeting warmth against the chill of isolation.

"Should my words wield the brush, they would breathe life into my art, awakening it with a vibrant cascade of hues.

If my words could resonate with song, I would captivate an audience, hanging on each note and syllable I utter.

Should my words find voice, they would speak of the deep, dark clouds that enshroud the innermost chambers of my heart.

If my words should ever carry weight, may they be blessed to reach and stir a heart, perhaps even to touch a soul in their whisper."

She considered her writing beautiful, a sentiment echoed by Lambert, whose admiration always kindled the fire within her. She was the hearth, steadfast and nurturing; he, the vibrant flame that brought warmth and light to their home. But now, with the flame extinguished, she found herself filled with a cold stillness. The home that once thrummed with warmth and movement lay dormant, a lingering echo of what was, leaving her in a frozen solitude, longing for the lost ember of their shared life.

Suddenly, Johnathan's cry pierced the silence, echoing like a distant, forlorn screech. Ophelia, moving with a mother's grace, rekindled the hearth's flame before turning to her son. He weighed barely 20 pounds, a tender eighteen months old, yet in her arms, he felt impossibly small. As she cradled him, her thoughts wandered to an imagined battlefield, distant yet ominously real. 'Father have mercy on them,' she whispered, thinking of the sons engulfed in war, far from the arms that once held them safe. Holding Johnathan closer, a silent vow formed in her heart, I can protect you now, my sweet babe. But deep down, she knew her role – a diligent homemaker by day, a soulful poet by night, confined within the walls of this frozen house, a relic of the husband who had departed.

Once again, she found herself seated at her desk, gently rocking Johnathan in her arms. Her gaze drifted towards the window, eyes searching the horizon. "Where do you linger, Lambert, lost in the relentless freeze of war?" she whispered, her words hanging in the still air, as if time itself awaited his reply. A solitary tear traced its way down her cheek, an echo of her aching heart.

She turned her attention back to Johnathan, her eyes reflecting a quiet resilience, mirroring that of her husband, and the steadfast house he had left behind. In her son's innocent eyes, she found a flicker of hope, a promise of endurance amidst the shadows of uncertainty that enveloped her world.

Once again, she found herself gazing down at her journal. Like so much else in her life lately, it seemed suspended in time, its pages frozen, eagerly awaiting the spark of inspiration to thaw them, to set the words flowing once more. With a gentle shift, she cradled Johnathan in her left arm, feeling the familiar weight of her son, a weight both literal and metaphorical. She picked up the pen with her right hand. Though Johnathan's presence was a tangible heaviness, he was a burden she embraced with love, a responsibility she would carry steadfastly to the very end.

"In the space you vacated, I remained, suspended in time, frozen until the moment of your return. 

My child's hand, so small and uncertain, wanders in search of mine - tiny in a vast world. So close yet seemingly distant, I gently grasp your hand, and together we walk, united towards whatever end may come."

Setting her pen aside, Ophelia gently cradled Johnathan in her arms, a tangible reminder of life's relentless march. In that quiet moment, a profound truth crystallized within her: there was an undeniable end. Time, in its deceptive stillness, might stretch infinitely, but her path was marked by destiny, a comforting warmth in the cold expanse of uncertainty. She embraced this fate, understanding that her journey, too, had its appointed conclusion. This acceptance didn't chill her spirit; rather, it ignited a quiet resolve. In the finite nature of her existence, she found not despair, but a liberating certainty. She was fated not just for an end, but for a meaningful culmination of her time, a definitive pause that lent significance to each passing moment.