The Beginning

Over 20 years ago a friend and I started writing a story, but life, life gets in the way and, well, we never finished it.

All the scrappy notes and Word documents are long gone or lurking on some abandoned hard drive, sitting patiently in my attic under a layer of dust.
All that really remains is the memory of the story, and those late-night sessions discussing the wheres, whys, and what fors. Pieces of multicoloured paper scattered across the living room floor in some half-mad attempt to impose order on imagination. To create a narrative timeline. To make sense of it all.

I lost my friend suddenly a few years ago, and with him went the possibility of ever finishing that story together. Any attempt now would make it something else entirely, no longer our story, but mine alone.

And that realisation sparked something unexpected.

A different story.

A story of memory.

Not memory as nostalgia, but memory as something fragile. Something that can be lost, distorted, overwritten, or preserved with care. A story about what we choose to remember, what we allow to fade, and what happens when forgetting becomes a force of its own.

The Keeper of the Flame grew out of that space.

It isn’t a resurrection of the story we once wrote. It couldn’t be. Instead, it’s a reflection of the conversations we had, the questions we never quite answered, and the quiet understanding that stories don’t really die, they fragment, waiting for the right moment to be gathered again.

This blog, these tales, this world, are my way of doing that gathering.

Of tending what remains.

Of keeping the flame.