No debris fell from the tree. No ashes piled around the base, no sparks jumped menacingly out, trying to claim more for the fire. No sound was made from the inferno. As I watched the fire consume the oak, the little light on my nose flickered, sometimes shining as bright as the moon, other times smoldering as softly as a star. As the pyre started to recede from the top down, dying and leaving nothing of the tree remaining, the tiny bead sputtered with the flames.