I put cold meat in the little cave and shut the mouth. The cave hums. It does not roar like true fire, does not spit or smoke or ask for wood. No flame. No red tongue. Only a low song and a light behind glass, and inside, the food turns slow circles like a beast pacing its own trap.
I do not trust a heat I cannot see. Fire I know. Fire I feed, fire I guard, fire I carry from camp to camp cupped in my hands like a small hot spirit. But this cave makes warmth from nothing. No coal. No breath. It steals heat from the air itself, or from the walls, or from some spirit crouched behind the numbers I press.
The cave shrieks when it is done. Three cries. I open the mouth. The meat is hot in the center and cold at the edges, cooked all wrong, warm where no flame ever touched. This is not cooking. This is a curse wearing the shape of a meal.
Still. Still I eat it. It is fast, and I am hungry, and the hunt is long.
A fire that hums and does not burn. I fear it. I use it every night.