He was huddled on the floor, his knees pulled to his chest.

A burning book fell from the shelf, landing inches from his leg.

He screamed.

“I’m coming, Ethan!” I shouted.

I stepped closer to the edge of the burning floorboards.

The heat scorched the skin on my bare arms.

I could feel the fabric of my dress warming up.

I tightened the apron around my nose and mouth.

I bent my knees, preparing to jump over the main line of the fire.

My heart hammered against my ribs.

This was the only way to reach him.

I took a deep breath of the hot, thin air.

I closed my eyes for a fraction of a second.

Then, the telephone on the floor near the desk lit up again.

The screen flashed in the smoke.

It was a video call.

The caller ID showed a name I did not expect to see.

It was Eleanor.

The glowing name on the screen did not make sense.

Eleanor Hawthorne had been buried in the family mausoleum two years ago.

Yet there it was, pulsing in the thick green light of an incoming video call.