A flower made of fire

The burst begins from one point, spreading outward in perfect rhythm. Golden lines flare, then stretch, tapering into the dark until they vanish. Scattered among them, bright specks of magenta pulse like small hearts, irregular yet deliberate. The sky behind stays black, pure and weightless, giving the light its full space to unfold.

The centre burns hottest, too bright to define. Around it, the glow cools slowly, each strand holding its own trail of smoke. The movement seems fast, but the photograph makes it eternal—capturing the second before everything falls apart.

After the first impression, it no longer feels like fire. The light turns organic, almost gentle, more like breath than flame. The explosion has ended, but its rhythm remains, steady as memory.