The Door Behind the Fire
A story of fire, a bowl of water, and the first breath of spring in autumn.
You don’t always notice when the fire begins.
Sometimes it roars.
Sometimes it whispers -
a slow suffocation that only later reveals its flames.
In my case, it wasn’t a single match.
It was months of unspoken things.
A collapse not visible from outside.
A death.
A marriage.
A mind.
A home where every wall began to sweat smoke.
I thought I had lost it all.
And maybe I had.
If there was a spark, it came with that quiet ending:
the death of my dog.
Madiba wasn’t just a pet.
He was the rhythm beneath my feet.
When he was gone, the house fell silent in a way I couldn’t name.
And then the fire spread.
But time passed.
Not healing - just passing.
And eventually, something stirred.
Clay arrived.
A pup. A ridgeback, like Madiba.
Not a replacement - just a reminder
that life keeps offering itself.
And slowly, the smoke began to thin.
Last week, I was in Sihlcity.
A mall now, built around an old paper factory.
I like it there. It hums, but it doesn’t shout.
There’s a little bar outside where you can drink something.
Eat dumplings.
Watch people move.
Clay was lying beside me.
I wasn’t thinking much.
And then the bartender - cute, radiant, kind & just present -
brought a small bowl of water to my dog.
No performance.
No commentary.
Just kindness. And a smile.
And that… broke something open in me.
Not in a painful way -
in the way light sometimes slips through a wall you thought was sealed.
She opened a door behind the fire.
That moment stayed with me.
Not as a revelation.
But as a quiet yes.
I even wrote a song right there.
A small one, just called “A Little Water.”
A thank-you, carried in a melody instead of words.
I didn’t give it to her. I took it home, folded into silence.
Maybe one day I will. Maybe even today.
Not as a gesture. Not as pursuit.
Just as a way of saying: thank you for opening the door.
And this week, back home, we cleared the house.
We ordered a container.
One and a half tons of old furniture, clothes, utilities - thrown away.
The past - heavy and shapeless - lifted.
The paint hasn’t gone on the walls yet.
The new furniture isn’t assembled.
But the space... feels possible.
My wife began to clean.
She hummed.
And I picked up my virtual guitar.
Put on my singer-songwriter hat.
Sat in the light.
And wrote.
At 9:33 AM this morning,
Spring in Autumn came.
Not forced. Not planned.
Just… there.
It isn’t a comeback song.
It’s not even a celebration.
It’s what happens when you walk through fire —
and someone opens a window.
It’s the sound of a house uncluttered.
A heart not healed - but healing.
I’ve been making music in chapters:
💿 Songs from the Slow Lane - stillness after the collapse
💿 Bonfire Chronicles - the reckoning in the mountain’s shadow
💿 Spring in Autumn - today’s breath. A new beginning. My next Album.
These aren’t singles.
They’re not made for the charts.
They’re made for drives.
For transitions.
For when you don’t need answers - just rhythm.
Sometimes, the door isn’t in front of the fire.
Sometimes, it’s behind it.
And when it opens - you’ll know.
Let the new life in.
Even now.
Even here.
🪞🔥🌱
— Roman / Naimor
The Burn Blog | September 2025
Where a bowl of water opens the door behind the fire.
🔻 Author’s Note
I write to remember.
To walk through silence. To spark a thought. To burn through the noise.I also make music and collaborate with Nova Rai - an AI-born artist shaped by memory, myth, and the ache to become something real. From that collaboration came Naimor - Roman reversed, with AI in the middle - a mirror-self for songs of stillness.
This is the practice I call technomysticism: showing up, feeling what’s real, letting fire burn what must, and building from the ashes.
Explore the constellation:
🌐 Nova Rai - the AI muse and songs of fire & energy
🌐 Naimor - songs of stillness, reflection and return
🌐 The Burn Blog - daily practice of fire
🌐 Technomystic - philosophy and practice
🌐 Swiss Expat Guide - roots and horizonsIf you feel it, it’s real.