Oven

On the edge of a forgotten village, where time weaves slowly, like patterns on ancient carpets, there was a lonely stove. Her body, like a heart, was wrapped in a layer of time, like autumn foliage delicately covering the ground. Through the glass of her eyes, distorted by the haze of centuries, she looked at the world with detached wisdom. An ancient song smouldered in it- a song about warmth that dispelled cold and loneliness. The stove stood in a dark corner of the house, like a guardian, preserving the memory of the centuries lived. In the evenings, when the moon showered the earth with its silver light, the stove awakened its soul. It seemed to her that not hot smoke was flowing in her chimney, but streams of memories. She recalled how moments of happiness melted in her flame, how lives were born and extinguished in her furnace cavity. Once, children's laughter splashed merrily in this house, and the walls were filled with the warmth of love. But time, like a merciless wind, dispelled family dreams, leaving only sadness in the heart of the stove. Fate was spreading human stories like ashes that are blown away by the wind. The stove stood, feeling its fuel–the firewood of fate–slowly running out. She became the keeper of the past, and her flame burned quieter and quieter, as if carefully whispering about the old times. Her warmth was going nowhere, like tears into the night. One day the wind brought news – the last person in the village went to the big world, leaving the stove alone again. Now she stood like a beacon in the ocean of time, waiting for someone to touch her cold body and kindle a new fire in her heart. But so far, she remained only a witness to the passing days, a sad symbol of time, which inexorably carried away everything in its course.