The Fire That Stayed
The drive back was silent, but inside me there was only noise — the kind that claws, bites, and refuses to die. My body sat still in the car beside Michael, but my mind was burning.Every breath I took seemed to drag me deeper into the echo of the past. I could still see the flames when I closed my eyes — flickering, furious, alive. I could still hear Alex's final cry, the one that split my world open and never stopped ringing.
I often wondered if he knew what his leaving would do to us — to Dad, to Michael, to me. Maybe if he'd seen the ruins that came after, he would've stayed.Or maybe… maybe he'd already seen it all. Maybe he looked at the pieces of what we were and decided peace was worth the cost of staying.
The ache of missing someone who no longer exists isn't loud. It's a quiet torture — like drowning in shallow water, reaching for air that will never come.
By the time we reached the estate, night had devoured the horizon. The mansion rose like a monument to ghosts — tall, silent, hollow.Once, it was a home. Now it stood like a mausoleum of memory, its windows blind, its halls breathless.
"You go on ahead," I said softly. "I'll join you in a bit."
Michael's eyes lingered on me. "I'll speak to your father first. Get some rest."
His voice was tired — not from the drive, but from years of carrying a grief none of us could set down.
When he disappeared inside, I turned toward the garden. Something in me — something ancient and aching — pulled me there.
The jasmine hit me first. That familiar sweetness, faint but alive, curling through the winter air like a memory that refused to fade. The garden was unchanged — trees standing like solemn witnesses, their bare branches whispering secrets to the night; the fountain trickling faintly, its water silver under the moon. The flowers were still here — violets, crimsons, pale yellows — though all their colours seemed dimmed, like they too had lost the will to bloom.
"It seems you kept the garden, Dad," I murmured to the air. "The one Mom loved."
The breeze brushed against my cheek like a ghost's hand. For one impossible heartbeat, I could almost hear them — Mom's laughter drifting through the leaves, Alex humming by the fountain, life itself breathing through these walls again.
Alex used to call this place his heaven. Said the jasmine reminded him of innocence. I used to watch him from here, sitting by the window in his room above. Sometimes he'd catch me staring and wave, grinning that reckless grin that made me believe nothing could ever happen to us.
Then one night, that same window burned.
It always begins with the smell.Smoke. Faint at first — something you mistake for a candle or the fireplace. Then stronger. Wrong.
I remember standing in this very garden, watching the stars blur as the air shifted. The quiet changed. The world tilted. And then I saw it — orange light spilling out of Alex's window, curling upward like a living thing, hungry and wild.
For a moment, my body froze. My heart forgot how to beat.Then the scream tore out of me.
"Fire! Alex's room — it's on fire! Dad! Someone, please!"
I ran. I don't remember how — only the pounding of my feet, the sting of cold air slicing through my lungs, the echo of my own voice bouncing off the marble walls. The house erupted into chaos: footsteps, shouts, crashing furniture. But all I could see was that window, glowing like a wound in the night.
When I reached the door, the handle scorched my skin. I didn't care. I yanked it open anyway.The smoke hit like a wall — thick, black, choking. It clawed at my eyes, my throat. Still, I pushed forward.
"Alex!" I coughed, stumbling through the heat. "Alex, where are you?!"
Then I saw him.
He stood near the window, framed by flame. His face was streaked with soot and tears, his hair glowing red in the firelight. But it wasn't fear that lived in his eyes. It was something far worse — acceptance.
"Alex!" I screamed, voice cracking. "Get out! Please, come on!"
He shook his head slowly. When he spoke, his voice trembled, soft but steady."No, Aubrey. It's too late."
My chest collapsed inward. "No! No, don't say that! The servants — they're coming! We can still—"
He smiled faintly. The kind of smile that breaks you because it's so gentle. "I wanted to laugh again," he said. "To paint, to see the sea, to stand next to you when the sun rises. But I can't anymore. My nights… they're never quiet. I'm tired, Aubrey."
"Please!" My hands burned as I reached for him. "Just come to me. I'll help you!"
He took one small step forward, the fire curling closer around him like a crown. His voice wavered, breaking. "I smiled because I had to. Because I was Alex Ardel. But tell me…" His eyes met mine — wet, wild, unflinching."Is there no peace left for me?"
Something inside me cracked. "There is! There is, I promise—just—please—come down!"
He looked at me as if memorizing my face for the last time. "My heart's hollow now," he whispered. "Filled with thoughts I can't silence. But you—" his breath hitched— "you have to live. Do you hear me? Live for me."
Then the ceiling gave way.
The fire lunged — a roar of light and sound that devoured everything in its path. For a single, impossible instant, I saw him — framed in gold, serene, his lips still curved in that same soft smile.
Then he was gone.
Hands grabbed me from behind. "Hold the young master back!" someone shouted.
"Let me go! He's still in there!" I fought, kicked, screamed until my throat bled. The heat bit into my skin. The smoke filled my lungs until the world went black.
The last thing I heard before the darkness swallowed me was the fire — alive, merciless — and my own broken whisper:"Alex… wait for me."
When I opened my eyes, I was lying in the garden again. The night was still. The jasmine had returned — its scent delicate, forgiving. The fountain whispered softly beside me, as if trying to comfort what it couldn't save.
"...Young master."
The voice trembled with age and devotion. I turned.
"Uncle Gren," I breathed.
He stood in the shadows, his figure stooped, his eyes wet with disbelief. "Is it truly you?" he whispered, reaching out with shaking hands. His touch on my cheek was frail but familiar — the same hand that once wiped my childhood tears. "How long has it been since I last saw you?"
"Too long," I said, voice thick. "I'm sorry for staying away."
He shook his head, eyes glistening. "Don't apologize, young master. This house died when Alex did. When you left, it only learned how to be quiet."
His words pierced something raw in me.
"I should've been here," I murmured.
"You needed to leave," he said softly. "You were trying to survive what none of us could."
The silence between us was heavy, but not empty. It was the kind of silence that hums with things too sacred for words.
"How are you, Uncle?" I asked quietly.
He smiled, the kind that hurts to see. "Taking each day as it comes. The market keeps me busy."
"And you, master?"
I looked toward the window — the one that used to hold a boy with a book and a smile. "Still fighting," I whispered. "Still trying to forgive myself."
He nodded, eyes misting. "Then you're still holding on."
"I have to," I said. "Someone has to remember him right."
He reached out, resting his trembling hand over mine. "Then may God give you peace, young master. You deserve it."
I squeezed his hand, my throat closing around words that wouldn't form. "Thank you, Uncle Gren."
As I walked back toward the hall, the mansion loomed — vast, golden, hollow. My footsteps echoed down the corridor like whispers through a tomb. Behind me, Uncle Gren remained by the garden, a small silhouette framed by the night.
And in the rustle of jasmine carried by the wind, I could swear I heard it again —Alex's voice, faint but certain, threading through the dark.
"Live, Aubrey… live for me."