In her grandmother's kitchen.
In the place she'd felt safest.
In the heart of everything she'd ever loved.
The irony wasn't lost on her: she'd spent so long trying to save this place, and now it would be her tomb.
A cabinet crashed down somewhere behind her, sending sparks spiraling toward the ceiling. The heat was unbearable now, pressing against her like a living thing, hungry for her last breath.
Hannah's fingers found the fallen recipe box, clutching it close one last time.
I'm sorry, Grandma.
The world tilted sideways, her lungs burning as she fought for air. Through the flames and smoke, through the tears streaming down her face, she thought she saw movement. A dark figure crashing through the fire.
But that couldn't be right.
No one was coming for her.
No one would risk?—
"Hannah!"
That voice. She knew that voice.
Jake.
Then everything went black.
The world came backin fragments.
Strong arms lifting her.
A voice calling her name.
Heat and smoke and motion.
Hannah floated somewhere between consciousness and darkness, aware of Jake's heartbeat against her cheek as he carried her. The recipe box was still clutched in her hands—when had she grabbed it? Why was she holding onto it so tightly?
Let go, a voice whispered in her head.It's just paper. Just memories.
But she couldn't.
Even as flames roared around them, even as Jake's arms tightened protectively around her body, she couldn't release her grip on that worn wooden box.
Because suddenly, with perfect clarity, she understood.
It had never been about the building.
Never about the walls or windows or copper wind chimes.
Never even about the recipes themselves.
It was about love.
The way her grandmother had modified each recipe to make people smile.
The way her mother had hung those chimes because the sound made customers feel at home.
