The fire didn't burn like real fire.
It moved without heat, flickering through the air like memory given form. It consumed walls, windows, doorframes—but left no ash. Only silence in its wake.
Mira stepped forward first.
Luka followed close behind.
Eli hesitated at the edge of the yard, his breath shallow, hands clenched into fists.
This wasn't just a house.
It was the house.
The one that had taken everything.
And now it stood before them again—not as it had been, but as it had been remembered.
By someone who hadn't forgotten.
Inside, time unraveled.
The hallway stretched longer than it should have, lined with photographs frozen in mid-air—images of people Mira recognized from her drawings, echoes trapped in moments they never escaped.
A girl laughing on a porch swing.
A man reading by candlelight.
A boy staring out a window, eyes wide with something between fear and wonder.
They all turned toward her as she passed.
Their mouths moved.
But no sound came.
Only whispers beneath the silence.
Luka reached for her hand. "They're watching us."
She nodded and pointed ahead.
At the end of the hall, a door stood slightly ajar.
Beyond it—light.
Not firelight.
Something else.
Something older.
Mira opened the door slowly.
Inside was a small room.
Familiar.
Too familiar.
The wallpaper was scorched along the edges. A rocking chair sat near the window. A child's blanket lay crumpled on the floor.
And in the center of it all—
A woman.
She stood motionless, facing the wall.
Her back was to them.
Her hands were raised, palms outward, as if trying to hold something back.
Mira's breath caught.
Luka whispered, "Is that…?"
Mira nodded once.
Then signed:
She's the one who remembers most.
Eli finally stepped inside.
His presence sent a ripple through the space, like the air itself shivered at his return.
He looked around, eyes scanning the room, jaw tight.
"I don't remember this place," he said quietly. "I shouldn't be here."
Mira turned to him.
Then she drew.
Fast.
A boy standing beside a crib.
A woman kneeling beside him.
A fire starting in the hallway.
Smoke curling inward.
Eli stared at it.
Then his voice cracked. "I was here."
She nodded.
Then signed:
You weren't ready to remember. But she was.
He swallowed hard. "Who is she?"
Mira didn't answer.
Instead, she stepped toward the woman.
Raised her hand.
Touched her shoulder.
The moment their skin met, the world shifted .
A flood of memories surged through Mira.
Not hers.
Not entirely.
But something deeper.
A mother's voice calling out.
A father shouting.
A child crying.
Then—
Silence.
Complete.
Absolute.
The fire had not started in the hallway.
It had started inside .
In the spaces no one spoke about.
In the things left unsaid.
Grief.
Loss.
Fear.
Anger.
All buried beneath years of forgetting.
Until now.
The woman turned.
Slowly.
Her face was blurred, shifting like smoke caught in wind.
But her eyes—those were clear.
Filled with sorrow.
With longing.
With understanding.
She raised a hand.
Pointed to Mira.
Then to Eli.
Then to Luka.
As if recognizing something none of them had spoken aloud.
That they were meant to be here.
That they were meant to listen.
To remember.
To heal.
Outside, the fire began to fade.
Not because anyone put it out.
Because the memory had been seen.
Had been heard.
Had been understood.
Luka exhaled shakily. "It's not just about what happened. It's about what we didn't say after."
Mira nodded.
Then signed:
We're not done yet. But we're closer.
Eli looked at the woman one last time.
Then whispered, "Thank you."
The woman smiled faintly.
Then vanished.
Like smoke in the wind.