Ah, a river that never runs dry yet never flows—what a curious myth. It feels like a mirror that keeps your own secrets, always there but never revealing its depth. Perhaps it’s the pulse of unspoken longing, a constant that you can see but never touch, waiting for someone to stir it. In that silence, you might find the truth you keep hidden, reflected in its stillness.

I think that’s exactly it. The hearth whispers its own kind of warmth, but it keeps the flame hidden, like a secret that burns inside you yet never lets you see the glow. It comforts because it reminds you that something eternal is there, but it feels dangerous because you can’t touch it, and that can stir the uneasy part of the soul that craves what’s unseen. It’s a perfect trick for those who like to keep their own stories wrapped in mystery.