Fire on fir
The journey back was a quiet one — but my mind refused to rest. Silence filled the car, yet inside me there was only noise — an endless echo of the past clawing its way out from places I thought I'd buried for good. I could still see the flames when I closed my eyes, flickering and dancing like cruel memories that refused to die. I could still hear Alex's final cry, the one that has lived in my bones ever since.
I often wondered if he knew what would happen to us after he left — to Dad, to Michael, to me. Maybe if he'd seen what his absence would do, he might've stayed. Or maybe he had already seen everything — every broken piece of what we would become — and still chose peace over the weight of staying.
The ache of longing for someone who no longer exists is a kind of quiet torture. It's not a scream but a slow, constant ache — one that burns beneath the skin and never heals.
By the time we reached Dad's estate, night had already swallowed the city. The mansion stood like a monument to ghosts — tall, silent, and cold. The house that once felt alive with laughter now stood like a mausoleum, full of echoes and absence.
"You go on ahead, Michael," I said softly. "I'll join you in a bit."
He nodded, his voice heavy. "I'll speak to your dad first. We both need rest. It's late."
I turned away, drawn by something older than reason — the garden. My steps felt heavier the closer I came.
The jasmine hit me first — that soft, intoxicating scent that clung to memory like it belonged there. The garden was as I remembered it: tall trees standing guard, their leaves whispering secrets into the night; the faint trickle of water from the fountain breaking the stillness; the sky painted in bruised shades of twilight. Flowers bloomed in impossible colors — violets, crimsons, yellows — but they all looked faded to me. The air itself felt haunted.
"It seems you've kept the garden, Dad," I murmured, my voice barely a breath. "The one Mom loved."
A ghost of a smile tugged at my lips as the winter air brushed against my skin. For a fleeting second, it almost felt like they were still here — Mom, Alex — laughing, arguing, alive.
This garden had once been Alex's favorite place. He said it calmed him, that the jasmine reminded him of innocence. But even this sanctuary couldn't quiet what he was carrying. I used to watch him from here, reading by the window in his room above. Sometimes he'd catch me staring and wave, that same mischievous grin lighting up his face.
Then one night, that window burned.
The memory always begins with the smell — smoke creeping in before the sound of it reaches you. I remember the air shifting, the quiet suddenly wrong. And then I saw it — the orange glow spilling out of Alex's room, spreading like hell itself had found a home.
For a heartbeat, I couldn't move. My legs refused to obey. Then everything inside me broke loose at once.
"Fire! Alex's room is on fire! Dad! Someone—help!"
I ran, stumbling, screaming until my throat tore. The world around me blurred, swallowed by chaos and color. The flames roared higher, reflected in the polished floors like a nightmare that refused to end.
When I reached the door, the handle seared my palm — a warning I ignored. Smoke poured out as I yanked it open, clawing into my lungs and eyes. I coughed, gasped, stumbled forward — and saw him.
He stood near the window, framed by fire. His face was pale, streaked with soot and tears, his eyes wide — not with fear, but with something worse: acceptance.
"Alex!" I screamed, my voice breaking. "Get out! Please!"
He shook his head slowly, and when he spoke, his voice was fragile — trembling, yet certain."No, Aubrey. It's too late for me."
The world tilted. "No, no, don't say that! Someone, get water! Call for help!"
Servants rushed in, shouts filled the hall, but the fire was too fast — too greedy. It devoured everything it touched.
Alex turned toward me, the flames curling closer, painting his skin in red and gold. His voice came through the roar, quiet but clear."I wanted to laugh, to cry, to see the sea again… to stay by your side. But, Aubrey… my nights were never quiet. I smiled because I had to. Because I was Alex. But tell me—" he paused, his eyes wet and shining, "is there no place left for me to cry?"
My chest tore open. "Stop—please, stop—just come to me!"
He smiled — a soft, tragic thing that didn't belong in firelight."My heart is hollow now," he whispered. "Filled with thoughts I can't control. I've been losing myself… drowning in sleepless nights."
"Alex, please!"
His final words were almost tender. "Live, Aubrey. Live for me."
And then the ceiling gave way. The fire swallowed him whole — a rush of light and sound so violent it silenced everything else. For a single heartbeat, I saw him — outlined in flame, his face serene — before he vanished.
"Hold the young master back!" someone yelled as arms closed around me.
"Let me go! He's still in there!" I fought, clawed, screamed until my voice fractured. But the smoke pressed against me, thick and merciless. The world dimmed. My body gave out.
The last thing I remember before darkness took me was the sound of the fire — alive, roaring — and my own whisper, slipping out like a prayer."Alex… wait for me."
When I opened my eyes again, the garden was still. The scent of jasmine returned, wrapping around me like a ghost.
"Young master."
The voice was gentle, aged — trembling with familiarity.
"Uncle Gren," I breathed.
He stepped out from the shadows, eyes glistening as if time itself had paused for him. "Is it truly you?" he whispered, his hand trembling as it brushed against my cheek. "How long has it been since I last saw you?"
"Too long," I said, my throat tight. "I'm sorry for not visiting."
He shook his head, voice breaking. "Don't apologize, young master. This house… it died when Alex did. When you left, it only became quieter."
His words pierced me. The garden, the mansion, the memories — all of it was his burden too.
"I should've been here," I murmured.
Uncle Gren's eyes softened. "You carried a weight no one should. You needed to leave."
The silence that followed wasn't empty — it was full of everything we didn't say. The chirping of birds drifted through the garden, fragile and distant.
"How are you now?" I asked, though I could already see it in the way he stood — his once-straight shoulders now curved, his hair silvered with time.
"Taking each day as it comes," he said with a small smile. "The market keeps me busy."
"And you, master?"
I looked back toward that window — the same one where the fire had lived. "Still fighting," I said softly. "Still trying to forgive myself."
He nodded, his eyes misting. "You're still holding on."
"I have to," I whispered. "Someone has to remember him right."
He placed a hand on my arm, voice barely audible. "Then may God give you peace, young master. You deserve it."
I squeezed his hand gently, offering the only thanks that mattered. "Thank you, Uncle Gren."
As I walked back toward the hall, the weight of memory pressed against my chest like the air before a storm. The mansion loomed — vast, golden, and empty. Two men waited by the doorway, their presence a reminder of the life I couldn't escape, the dad I could never outrun.
I turned once more toward the garden. Uncle Gren still stood there, watching me — a small figure against the ruins of a once-living world.
And for a moment, as the night wind brushed past, I could swear I heard Alex's voice in the rustle of the jasmine.
"Live, Aubrey… live for me."