This past spring, the Eaton Fire swept through the foothills above Los Angeles, forcing the evacuation of my family and consuming the homes of friends. The flames were swift and merciless — but more than the forest burned. The fire made visible what we often forget: that the climate crisis is not a future to prepare for. It is a present we are already living.

The Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change projects up to 200 million climate refugees by 2050 — a scale of human displacement that threatens to upend every assumption of global order: sovereignty, economy, identity, even empathy. Entire cities may be lost, not just to water or fire, but to a collapse of care. How will we welcome those who come when the map no longer holds?

In that silence after the fire, a question burned brighter than the embers: Where will we go, and who will take us in?
From that question, this myth — and this protocol — was born.

Long ago, in the early dawn of the digital commons, there arose a vision called Airbnb, born of wanderers and hosts — those who opened their doors not just for coin, but for kinship. The traveler and the keeper shared tea, traded stories, and mapped one another’s souls in the light of borrowed hearths.

But over time, as with all myths that go unguarded, this vision was hollowed out. The Great Lodge was overtaken not by dragons, but by data centers and capital funds. Hosts no longer waited by the door. Instead, passcodes replaced conversations. Homes turned to shadow-hotels, governed by absentee algorithms. Connection, once the sacred fire, now flickered behind sterile UX and cleaning fees.

And so the Hearthkeepers arose — quietly, first — from mountain communes, desert ruins, flooded coasts, and forest fringes. They remembered the old ways, but they bore a new fire: the spark of a protocolic flame.

From the ashes of false hospitality, a new constellation of homes emerged: Refugia — not a platform, but a protocol. Not a brand, but a banner. A decentralized, trust-held alliance of stewards who vowed not merely to rent space, but to sanctify shelter.

This was no app. It was a shared myth, woven in code and covenant.

The Protocol had three sacred tenets:

Every Refugia node — be it a yurt, longhouse, tower, or train car — is a beacon. It maps not only place, but passage. Hosts, now called Waykeepers, vow to greet at least one guest per cycle with shared bread and shared story. Each guest becomes a witness — leaving behind not a review, but a reflection in the form of a memory token.

Each Refugia space is built or adapted to withstand the storm — solar-powered, greywater-looped, designed for regenerative repair. Part of its earnings flow into a Refugia Fund, governed by a DAO of climate migrants, wise elders, and decentralized architects. This fund seeds new sanctuaries where displacement will come next — before it arrives.

Forget five stars. Refugia runs on threads of trust. Each participant — guest or keeper — carries a non-transferable token: not currency, but credence, earned through shared aid, not payment. Think of it like mythic renown: the more you give, the more pathways open to you.

These tokens do not grant VIP status, but rather vows: responsibilities to steward, protect, and pass forward the welcome received.

Built atop a mesh of local-first infrastructure and whispering nodes of peer-to-peer code, Refugia does not centralize. It spores. Like fungi underfoot. Like lanterns on the trail. It prioritizes resilience over growth, care over scale, and kin over consumer.

You can’t “book” a Refugia site. You petition. You write why you’re coming, what you carry, and what you offer. Some are refused. Others are welcomed with drums.

The old gods of platforms demanded optimization. The new gods — or rather, the old-new ones — ask for reciprocity.

What we face is not just a housing crisis. It is a crisis of hospitality. The mythic wound is not that people must flee — they always have. The wound is that we no longer know how to receive them.

Refugia is an answer, whispered not from boardrooms but from thresholds.

It is the lantern in the storm — lit not to signal vacancy, but sanctuary.

It is the myth of the Hearthkeepers — a new people, bound not by flag but by fire, who believe that to shelter another is not a transaction, but a rite of remembering: that all of us are, at heart, guests in the storm.

This myth is not fiction. It is the seed of a new kind of infrastructure — built not of concrete and code alone, but of memory, mutual aid, and meaning. It is shared by the Patchwork Protocol on behalf of Patrick Atwater, a father, water steward, and civic mythmaker who knows what it is to lose sanctuary. The image is from the apropos Inn Fire near Mono Lake, still smoldering at the time of this article.