When I saw a man run into his late father’s burning mansion, I thought he was out of his mind. Eight hours later, as the flames finally died down, he emerged from the wreckage — alive, clutching a small, soot-stained box.
I adjusted my helmet, my hands unsteady though I’d never admit it. Today was Mom’s birthday, another one come and gone without a word between us. I could almost hear her voice, as crisp and disapproving as ever: “She wasn’t right for you, Ethan. I know what’s best.” She had “known best” about everything, or at least she thought she did. Back then, I’d let her have her way, even when it came to Sarah. I’d loved Sarah — truly loved her — but Mom was convinced otherwise. After one final fight, she went as far as faking messages to another girl, making it seem like I’d cheated. It was flawless deception, and Sarah, devastated, believed her. I left a month later and never looked back. Every birthday, every holiday passed in silence. Stubborn, maybe. But the wound she left never healed.
“Hey, Ethan!” Sam’s voice broke into my thoughts. I looked up to see him, a seasoned firefighter, grinning. “You ready for tonight’s shift? Rumor is it’ll be a quiet one.”
“Don’t jinx it,” I muttered, forcing a smile as I tried to shake off the memories. But the weight of today clung to me.
Then the radio crackled to life.
“Engine 27, Engine 27, report of a fire at Crestwood. Large structure, possible occupants inside.”
Sam’s expression shifted. “Crestwood? That old mansion on the edge of town? Thought that place was empty.”
“Guess not,” I replied, grabbing my gear as adrenaline surged. In minutes, we were speeding down the road, the glow of flames brightening the horizon.
When we arrived, the entire mansion was ablaze, flames consuming every window and sending thick black smoke into the night sky. As we positioned hoses and started our work, I heard shouting. A young man in a suit was pushing against the barricade, frantic.
