The sun on Isabella's skin felt cold, an utterly detached and sick parody of warmth. She was standing in the wreck of her childhood home, a vast, blackened canvas where life used to be, and the air still smelled powerfully of ash, burnt wood, and melted plastic—a sour, chemical stench that clung to the back of her throat like cheap, toxic wine.
She had three days. That was the harsh, impersonal ultimatum from the city council: clear the lot before they officially deemed the entire property an irreparable hazard and condemned it entirely. Three days to sift through the soot, the debris, and the overwhelming torrent of memories, and somehow turn this beloved graveyard into a clean, empty slate. It was an impossible burden for a twenty-one-year-old, especially one whose mind hadn't known true, deep silence since the sirens stopped screaming and the fire hose finally went dry.
So she did the only thing she knew how: she hung a sign on the remaining splintered fence post.
DOOR SALE.
It was a blatant, desperate lie, of course. Everything of recognizable value had been consumed or twisted by the monstrous flames that had taken her parents and her younger brother, Michael. But the boldness people always whispered about—that defiant, almost reckless edge at her core—demanded she try. She needed the money, yes, but more urgently, she needed to impose a semblance of order and normalcy onto the chaos. She had set up a flimsy, scorched folding table among the charred foundation stones, displaying a pathetic array of soot-stained knick-knacks and half-melted ceramics that had somehow survived the inferno only to look like abstract sculptures of pain.
She wore a simple, sleeveless dress the color of rich, old wine—the single, intact garment she'd retrieved from the dry cleaner before the fire had hit. It felt less like clothing and more like armor; a deliberate, vibrant statement that she was still present, still whole, still red, despite the surrounding landscape of overwhelming black. Her dark hair was pulled back tight, her gaze fixed and dry, refusing to betray the devastation that swam just beneath her calm surface.
Then there was the door.
It hadn't been part of the house, not exactly. It had been stored, forgotten, deep inside the small, stone shed near the property line. It was a massive, ancient thing made of dark oak, its surface strangely and unnervingly untouched by the blaze, as if the fire itself had stopped short, or had even been repelled by its presence. Its color was a deep, unsettling, almost velvety wine-red, sinking into absolute black where the shadow fell. She had physically strained to drag it out only because it was the largest, most solid thing left, something heavy and real to anchor the sheer absurdity of the "sale." It stood propped against a few stubborn, remaining bricks, silent, imposing, and utterly out of place.
A woman approached the table, her face a mask of reflexive pity. She picked up a melted ceramic bird, turning the mangled shape over in her gloved hand. "Oh, honey," she whispered, her voice thick with practiced sympathy. "I'm so sorry for your loss. That fire... it must have been an absolute horror. God bless."
Isabella didn't look up. She kept her eyes focused on counting the crumpled, mostly smoke-stained bills in her small tin box. "It was wreckage," Isabella corrected, her voice flat, devoid of warmth or welcome. "Not a funeral. The price for the bird is five dollars."
The woman flinched dramatically at the sharp, immediate correction, paid quickly, and then scurried away, undoubtedly heading home to tell her neighbors how truly cold and tragically unfeeling that poor Isabella had become. Too bold, they would think. Too cold. Isabella swallowed the accusation. She preferred it. Cold was a form of protection. Cold didn't burn.
The afternoon dragged on—a slow, pathetic parade of well-meaning neighbors, ghoulish looky-loos, and pity purchases. Every interaction was a fresh pinprick, a fresh reminder of what was gone. She was just about to pack up, the tin box barely holding sixty dollars, when a new voice cut through the heavy, dead silence. A voice that held no pity, only a chilling, unnerving focus.
"That door. The red one. Is it for sale?"
Isabella looked up instantly. Standing over her was a man with unnervingly bright, pale eyes and a tailored suit that looked criminally expensive and clean next to the surrounding debris. He didn't look at her, the grieving young woman; he looked only at the dark red oak door.
"Everything is for sale," Isabella said, tapping the ancient oak with her fingernail, her practiced composure instantly snapping back into place. "But that's special. It survived everything else."
He took a decisive step closer, and despite the bright afternoon sun, a deep shadow seemed to fall across the yard. His face was unreadable. "I know what it is, Isabella."
She felt the first true, genuine rush of adrenaline and fear since the fire—a sudden, sharp splinter in her heart. He knew her name, but she didn't know his. The air suddenly felt too thin.
"And I know what it can do".