The white light faded slowly, bleeding into orange. Then red.
I opened my eyes to the sound of wind and fire. The world trembled. Smoke curled up around me like ghostly hands, reaching, clinging. My throat tightened with the sharp, choking scent of burning wood.
The house wasn't whole anymore.
It was the house. The real one.
The walls were cracked open. The windows shattered. Flames crawled across the ceiling, whispering, laughing, hungry.
And then—her voice.
"Nathan!"
Emma.
Her scream cut through everything.
I turned, heart hammering so hard I thought it would tear through my chest. The smoke was thick, choking the hallways. I couldn't see her, couldn't see anything.
"Emma! Where are you?" I shouted.
Another crash—wood splintering somewhere above. The sound of a beam collapsing. The fire roared in answer.
"Nathan!"
The sound came from the back room. The studio.
I ran.
Every step was a fight—the air thick and hot, walls melting in the glow. My hand brushed against the doorframe and came away blackened with soot. The heat tore at my skin, my clothes, my lungs.
But I didn't stop.
Because she was in there.
When I reached the studio door, it was already half-burned through. The flames ate at the wood like it was nothing. I tried the handle—it seared my palm instantly.
"Emma!"
"It's stuck!" she screamed. "I can't get out!"
I slammed my shoulder against the door once, twice, again—each time the fire bit deeper, the smoke thicker. My vision blurred.
"Hold on! I'm coming!"
I grabbed the nearest thing—a chair—and smashed it into the door. Once. Twice. The wood cracked but didn't break. The heat burned through the fabric of my shirt, blistered my hands.
Behind the door, she was coughing, choking.
"Nathan, please—hurry!"
I hit the door again, sobbing, screaming her name. But it wouldn't move. The fire had eaten through the frame, warped it shut.
And then, through the smoke, I saw her.
Through the narrow gap between the boards, her face flickered in the orange light. Eyes wide, tears cutting clean paths through the soot on her cheeks.
"I can't—" I gasped, pounding again. "I can't open it!"
She pressed her palm against the crack. I pressed mine to the other side, desperate to touch her.
"It's okay," she said, voice shaking. "Nathan, it's okay."
"No! No, it's not—don't say that—"
"You have to go," she said softly. "You have to get out."
"I'm not leaving you."
Her eyes glimmered through the smoke. "Please. Don't make me watch you die too."
I shook my head violently, tears mixing with ash. "Emma—please—"
Her lips trembled, trying to form a smile. "You were the best thing that ever happened to me."
The flames surged behind her, painting her in gold and red and horror.
And then the beam above her cracked.
"Emma!"
The world exploded in sound and heat. A burst of flame swallowed the doorway, the window, everything.
I staggered back, screaming her name until my voice broke. My skin blistered from the heat. My lungs filled with smoke. I could still hear her—just barely—her voice fading under the roar of the fire.
"Nathan… go."
Then nothing.
Only the fire.
Only the sound of everything we'd built collapsing.
I don't remember how I got out. Maybe someone pulled me out. Maybe I crawled.
All I know is that I woke up outside, lying in the dirt, coughing up smoke and ash.
The house was gone. Just black skeletons of walls and a pillar of flame tearing at the sky.
And I saw her through it.
Not really her—but the shadow of her, framed in the blaze. Still.
I tried to move, but my body wouldn't obey. I screamed until there was nothing left.
Then everything went dark.
When I opened my eyes again, I was standing in the ruins.
The fire was gone now, but the air still carried its heat. The smell of smoke and charred wood clung to everything. The moonlight cut across the wreckage like a blade.
This wasn't memory anymore. This was what was left.
I walked through the debris, my boots crunching on broken glass and ash.
Her paintbrushes lay scattered, blackened but recognizable. One of them still had traces of red paint on it.
The color made my stomach turn.
I sank to my knees, shaking. My mind wanted to forget again, to fold the truth away into another illusion, another dream where she lived.
But I couldn't. Not this time.
Because now I remembered everything.
How I'd been the one to cause it—at least in my mind.
I'd left a candle burning in the studio. She'd fallen asleep painting. I was supposed to check, but I didn't.
I'd told myself for years it wasn't my fault. That it was just an accident.
But guilt doesn't care about reason.
Guilt just stays.
A whisper drifted through the ashes.
"Nathan."
I froze.
The voice was soft, raw, almost human—but not from this side of the world.
"Emma?" I breathed.
The air shimmered. The ashes lifted, swirling into faint patterns of light. For a moment, I saw her—translucent, fragile, eyes full of sorrow.
She knelt beside me, her face lit by a memory of fire.
"You remember now," she said gently.
I nodded, tears spilling down my face. "I killed you."
Her expression twisted—pain, yes, but not anger. "No. You didn't. You tried to save me."
"I didn't do enough."
"You couldn't have done more."
Her voice broke. "It wasn't your fault, Nathan. It never was."
I shook my head. "I should've been faster. I should've—"
She reached for me, her hand passing through mine like mist. "You have to stop carrying it."
"I can't," I whispered. "You're all I have left."
"Then remember me," she said softly, "but don't stay here. Don't stay in the fire."
The ground trembled. The house groaned. Somewhere deep beneath the ruin, the fire still burned—a slow, endless echo.
She looked around, her light beginning to dim. "You're keeping this place alive. It's feeding on you."
"I don't care," I said. "If it means I can see you again, I'll burn forever."
Her eyes filled with tears. "You already are."
She leaned forward, pressed her forehead to mine, and whispered, "Please. Let me go."
The world started to fade again—this time not into illusion, but into something colder, emptier.
The fire flared one last time, and I screamed her name until my voice dissolved into ash.
When silence came, it was complete.
No fire. No illusion. Just the ruins of the life we'd built—and me, kneeling among the ashes, the truth finally burned into my skin.
I remembered everything now.
And maybe that was worse than forgetting.