Liam grabbed a heavy iron tire iron from the trunk, his face grim in the darkness.

“Stay behind me,” he whispered, taking my hand.

His hand was warm, a small comfort against the freezing rain and the terror clawing at my throat.

We walked quickly toward the gap in the rusted fence, the wet weeds brushing against our legs.

The smell of old soot and wet, rotting wood grew stronger with every step we took.

It was a smell I knew too well.

It was the smell of the night my life changed, the night I pulled myself out of the flames while my family’s world collapsed.

The charity hall’s grand entrance was gone, replaced by a sagging wooden beam and a heap of charred rubble.

A yellow piece of faded police tape fluttered in the wind, long since torn and useless.

“Chloe?” I whispered into the dark, but the wind swallowed the sound instantly.

We reached the threshold, stepping over a pile of broken slate tiles and shattered glass.

Inside, the air was still and freezing, carrying the heavy, oppressive scent of mildew and ash.