I wake up annoyed.
That's the first emotion, and it's so ordinary that it takes me a few seconds to realize something's wrong. Annoyance is familiar. Safe. It means I still think tomorrow exists.
There's a sound in the walls. Not loud. Just a soft tick… tick… like metal expanding, or wood settling, or the house adjusting itself the way it always does at night. I stare at the ceiling, eyes half-open, and tell myself it's nothing.
Go back to sleep.
The smell comes next.
That's when my brain hesitates.
It's faint at first, almost polite, like it's asking permission. Something bitter, something dry. My chest tightens before I can name it, and I hate that about myself—how my body always knows things before I do.
I sit up slowly.
"Mom?" I call, already irritated at how small my voice sounds. Like, I don't expect her to answer. Like I already know she won't.
No response.
The digital clock on my nightstand glows 2:41 a.m. Too early for this. Too late for it to be normal. I press my thumb into my palm, grounding myself the way the counselor taught me, and tell myself I'm overreacting. I always do that first—accuse myself.
You're tired. You're dramatic. Calm down.
I swing my legs off the bed.
The floor is warm.
That thought lands slowly, like it needs permission too.
Warm isn't right. The house is always cold at night. I pause, my foot still flat against the wood, waiting for the sensation to correct itself. Waiting for my brain to laugh and say false alarm.
It doesn't.
My stomach drops, but my mind stays strangely calm, already building excuses. Heater malfunction. Insulation. Literally anything but what my body is whispering.
"Okay," I mutter, because talking makes things feel manageable. "That's weird."
I stand, and the air presses in around me—thick, heavy, as if I've stepped into steam I can't see. My chest feels tight, but not in a panicked way. It's the same feeling I get before exams. Before confrontations. Before things, I know I can't avoid.
I open my bedroom door.
The hallway light flickers.
I freeze, one hand still on the doorknob, heart stuttering. Shadows stretch too far down the walls, bending at odd angles. At the far end, near the stairs, there's a soft orange glow.
No.
That word forms instantly, sharp and reflexive. Not fear. Rejection.
"This isn't happening," I whisper, even as my pulse picks up. "This is just… light. Reflection."
"Mom?" I call again, louder this time, because if I say it confidently enough, maybe it'll be true.
The answer isn't a voice.
It's a crack.
Sharp. Final. Like something giving up.
My body moves before I decide to. I run.
The hallway feels longer than it ever has, my footsteps echoing strangely, like the house is hollow now. Heat presses against my skin as I move closer to the stairs. Not pain—just presence. Too much of it. I notice that detail even as fear finally starts to bloom.
Shouldn't this hurt?
The question feels stupid the second I think it, but it won't go away.
I take the first step down.
The house shifts.
There's a deep groan—low, structural, the sound of something massive losing patience—and then the world tilts violently to the side.
I fall.
There's no clean memory of impact. Just noise, pressure, the sudden absence of air as something heavy slams across my chest. Dust fills my mouth. Smoke burns my throat. I scream, or I think I do, but it comes out broken.
I can't move.
The beam across me is solid, immovable. I shove at it, panic finally punching through my chest, my arms shaking uselessly. The fire is close now. I can hear it. Feel it. It creeps forward in slow, deliberate movements, and something about that terrifies me more than speed would have.
Get up, my mind screams. Do something.
I can't.
"This isn't how this goes," I whisper hoarsely. "People don't die like this."
The thought feels detached, observational, like I'm watching myself from somewhere else. Like this is a story I've already read and don't remember agreeing to.
The heat wraps around me.
I brace myself.
For pain. For screaming nerves. For the moment where everything becomes unbearable.
It doesn't come.
Instead, there's warmth. Focused. Concentrated. It settles deep in my chest, heavy but steady, like something anchoring itself there. My heartbeat slows when it should be racing.
The fire near me flickers.
Pulls back.
I stare at it, confused, my fear stalling out into disbelief.
That's not right.
"No," I whisper. "Stop."
The flames hesitate, as if listening.
My mind scrambles for explanations—shock, adrenaline, denial—but none of them fit properly. I feel wrong. Untouched. Like the fire is choosing not to hurt me.
"Asha!" someone yells from outside. "She's inside!"
The sound grounds me. Breaks whatever spell my thoughts were forming. Reality rushes back in—boots pounding, metal clanging, voices shouting over each other.
"Don't move!" a man shouts. "We've got you!"
Hands grip the beam. Tools bite into wood. There's a screech of metal, a sudden release of pressure, and the weight lifts all at once.
I gasp.
Air tears into my lungs like glass, and I cough violently, my body shaking as someone drags me away from the wreckage. I'm barely aware of the movement, my mind lagging, trying to piece together what just happened.
Cold air hits my face outside.
I'm shaking now, wrapped in a blanket that smells like smoke and something clean underneath. The house behind me is fully engulfed, flames roaring into the night sky, loud and furious.
A woman kneels beside me. "Can you hear me?" she asks gently. "What's your name?"
"Asha," I manage.
"Good. Stay with me, Asha."
I nod, though I'm not sure what she's asking me to stay for.
As they lift me into the ambulance, I glance back one last time.
The fire surges.
For a brief, impossible second, it feels like it leans toward me—not threatening, not kind.
Just Recognizing. My chest tightens.
I shut my eyes before anyone can ask me what I'm staring at.
The inside of the ambulance smells like plastic and antiseptic and something vaguely sweet that makes my stomach turn. I focus on that instead of the way my hands won't stop shaking.
They ask me questions. Simple ones. My name. My age. If I know where I am.
I answer automatically. I've always been good at that—giving people what they need so they'll leave me alone.
"Asha Vale," I say."Seventeen.""Yes, I know where I am."
The last one feels like a lie, but not enough of one to argue about.
The paramedic sitting beside me keeps glancing at my chest, like he expects to see something there. Burns, maybe. Blisters. Anything that would make sense. I notice it because I'm doing the same thing in my head, replaying the moment over and over, trying to insert pain where there wasn't any.
You were pinned under a burning house, a voice in my head says.That should have hurt.
I pull the blanket tighter around myself, even though I'm not cold. I'm not hot either. I feel… neutral. Balanced in a way that doesn't match what just happened.
"Any pain?" the paramedic asks.
I open my mouth, then close it again.
Pain would be easier to explain.
"I don't think so," I say finally.
He raises an eyebrow. "You don't think so."
I shrug, a small movement. Careful. "I mean, I probably will later."
That seems to satisfy him. He nods, scribbles something on his clipboard, and tells me adrenaline can do strange things. I cling to that explanation like it's been handed to me on purpose.
Yes, I think. Strange things. That's all.
The siren is off now, but the motion still makes my head feel loose, like it's not fully attached. I stare at the ceiling and count the tiny cracks in the plastic, tracing them with my eyes. I tell myself not to think about the fire leaning toward me.
I tell myself a lot of things.
At the hospital, everything gets brighter. Louder. People move around me quickly, efficiently, like I'm an object that needs to be placed somewhere specific. They cut the blanket away. They prod and press and shine lights into my eyes.
Still no pain.
That's when the looks start to change.
Not alarmed. Not relieved. Curious.
"Any trouble breathing?""Dizziness?""Numbness?"
I answer no to all of it, even when I'm not entirely sure. I don't want to give them a reason to dig deeper. I don't want to hear the words miracle or unexplainable or you're lucky.
Luck implies randomness.
This didn't feel random.
A doctor eventually sighs and straightens, glancing at my chart. "You're remarkably unharmed," she says, like she's talking to herself as much as to me.
I force a small smile. "I guess I got out in time."
She hesitates, then nods. "Yes. I suppose you did."
But she doesn't sound convinced.
They let me sit up after a while. Someone brings me water. I take a sip and nearly choke when my hands shake hard enough to slosh it over the rim.
Get it together, I scold myself. People survive fires all the time.
People also don't walk away without burns.
My mom arrives an hour later.
She looks smaller than usual, wrapped in a borrowed jacket, her face pale and drawn tight with fear she hasn't let herself feel yet. When she sees me sitting upright, color rushes back into her cheeks so fast it almost scares me.
"Asha," she breathes, crossing the room in three long strides. She pulls me into a hug before I can react, gripping me like she's afraid I'll disappear if she lets go.
"I'm okay," I say automatically, the words muffled against her shoulder. "I'm really okay."
She pulls back just enough to look at my face, her hands framing my cheeks. Her eyes dart over me, checking, counting. When she doesn't find what she's looking for, her brow furrows.
"They said you were trapped," she says quietly. "They said—"
"I wasn't," I interrupt too quickly. "Not for long. It sounds worse than it was."
The lie slips out easily. It always does when it's meant to protect someone else.
She studies me for a long moment, like she's trying to reconcile my words with the image she must have built in her head. Finally, she nods and hugs me again, tighter this time.
I stare past her at the white wall.
The house is gone. They tell us that later. Total loss. Electrical fire, maybe. They'll investigate, but there won't be much left to investigate.
I should feel something about that.
Sadness. Anger. Relief.
Instead, there's just a hollow space where those emotions should be, like something burned through them before I had time to notice.
That night, after they discharge me and we sit in a borrowed car outside a friend's house, my mom reaches over and squeezes my hand.
"I'm so glad you're safe," she says softly.
I nod. "Me too."
The words feel rehearsed.
When I finally lie down on a couch that isn't mine, I close my eyes and wait for sleep. It doesn't come. Every time I start to drift, I feel that warmth again, low and steady in my chest.
Not fading.
Waiting.
I press my palm there, just to check.
My skin is cool. Normal.
Still, I keep my hand there until morning, like I'm afraid something will escape if I don't.
Morning doesn't feel like morning.
It feels like a continuation of something I forgot to finish. I wake up slowly, staring at a ceiling I don't recognize, my body already tense before my mind catches up. For a moment, I don't know where I am, and the panic spikes sharp and fast—
Then I remember.
The house.The fire.The fact that I'm still here.
I exhale, long and shaky, and sit up. The couch creaks beneath me. My neck aches from sleeping wrong, and for a brief, stupid second, I'm grateful for the discomfort. Pain is familiar. Pain makes sense.
The warmth in my chest is still there.
Not stronger. Not weaker. Just… present. Like a held breath that never quite releases.
I press my lips together and stand, padding toward the kitchen so I don't wake anyone. The house we're staying in smells like coffee and laundry detergent and someone else's life. I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly aware of how little I own now.
Everything I had fit into one borrowed backpack.
My phone buzzes in my hand, startling me. I almost drop it.
A text from an unknown number.
—Glad you're okay. Heard what happened.
I stare at the screen, thumb hovering uselessly. I don't answer. I don't know how to respond to that sentence. Okay feels like a stretch.
Another buzz.
—School's postponing the trip, btw. They'll let us know.
The words sink in slowly.
The trip.
I'd forgotten about it completely. The beach trip everyone had been complaining about for weeks. Mandatory fun. Mandatory bonding. I'd almost skipped it, actually—told myself I was too tired, too busy, too uninterested.
Something twists in my stomach.
You're still going, a part of me thinks immediately. Not excited. Not eager. Just certain.
I shove the phone into my pocket and pour myself a glass of water. My hands shake slightly, enough that I notice but not enough that anyone else would. I take a long drink and let the coolness ground me.
The water goes down easily.
Too easily.
I set the glass down harder than necessary and step back, heart pounding, annoyed at myself for jumping at shadows. Everything feels like a potential clue now, and I hate it. I don't want clues. I don't want explanations that open doors I can't close.
Later, when the sun is fully up and people start talking in normal voices again, the questions come.
Friends. Neighbors. Teachers. Even strangers.
"Were you scared?""Do you remember anything?""How did you get out?"
I answer them all the same way.
"I don't really remember.""It happened fast.""I got lucky."
Each lie feels lighter than the truth, like I'm shedding weight with every repetition.
By the time a social worker gently suggests counseling, I've perfected my calm smile. I nod. I say I'll think about it. I don't say that I already know what they'll tell me—that shock does strange things, that the mind protects itself, that memory is unreliable.
They'll say I imagined the rest.
That's what I plan to believe.
That night, alone in the guest room, I dream.
I'm standing in the remains of my house, ash thick under my feet. The fire isn't raging anymore. It's quiet. Controlled. It circles me slowly, like it's waiting for permission.
I open my mouth to scream.
Flames curl gently around my wrists instead, warm but not burning.
We didn't hurt you, something whispers. Not aloud. Inside. You listened.
I wake up gasping, heart racing, my hand clutched tight over my chest.
The warmth pulses once, almost like a response.
"No," I whisper into the dark. "You're not real."
The warmth doesn't fade.
I roll onto my side and squeeze my eyes shut, forcing myself to think about anything else. School. The trip. The ocean, I don't particularly like. The fact that tomorrow will happen whether I'm ready or not.
Eventually, exhaustion wins.
As I drift off, one last thought slips through, uninvited and unsettling:
If the fire recognized me… what else might?