The main room’s empty—or looks it, it’s barely visible—just shapes in motion, flickers of orange light jumping off surfaces that might be furniture, might be walls. I can’t tell. Above me, something creaks, a long, low groan that makes the hairs on my neck stand up.
My Threads stir in response, hot and impatient under my skin, aching for release. And yeah—this is exactly when knowing how to use them properly would actually mean something. Maybe I could shove the fire back, carve myself a path through the smoke. But I don’t have that kind of control. And in here—walls trembling, roof ready to cave—one wrong push could bring the whole place down on top of us.
“Rhiann? Charlie?” I yell again.
Still nothing. Just the roar of the fire as it climbs the walls, racing toward the ceiling, reaching into the room like it’s caught my scent and wants me burned.
I drop low, yanking my shirt over my mouth as the smoke curls thick around my face. It clings to my skin, stinging my eyes, slick with sweat.
I can barely see a metre in front of me—just the smear of motion, the flicker of firelight through the haze, but I keep moving. Feet heavy, every step dragging deeper into the heat, stinging my skin raw.
A picture frame crashes beside me, glass exploding across scorched floorboards as I push through into the hallway. Up ahead, the kitchen door sags on half-burned hinges, frame blackened and buckling. I edge closer and brace myself, liftingone arm to shield my face as I push the door open. A blast of scorching air punches out the second it gives, sharp and biting.
Dropping my arm, I expect to see them,prayto see them, but it’s just smoke and flame.
Above me, a heavy snap—wood straining, loud enough to split through the fire’s roar. But underneath it, buried in the crackle—faint.
“Help.” A kid’s voice.Charlie.
I freeze, straining to catch it again—there, behind me, off to the side. A muffled scrape, the bathroom, it has to be.
My heart hammers harder as I spin, shoving back into the hall, blinking through smoke until the door comes into view—half open, edges scorched.
Through the dark haze, I spot her, Rhiann, on the floor, still. Too still. And crouched beside her is a small figure, face streaked with soot, eyes wide. Charlie.
He shifts to stand, the floor dips. It looks ready to give.
“Don’t.” The word rips out of me. “Stay there.”
“Mum won’t wake,” he cries, not moving.
I take one step toward them—Crack.
The ceiling groans—low, dragging—like the house itself is giving up. My head jerks up. Too late. The beam tears free, crashing down in a spray of splinters and flame, slamming into the floor between us. The blast knocks me back hard—I hit the floor shoulder first, elbow cracking, lungs seizing. Heat blasts out from the impact, rushing across my skin in warning. Scrambling backwards, I push myself into the kitchen, boots slipping on ash-slick tile. In front of me, the hallway’s gone, swallowed whole by flame.
“Charlie!” I shout, coughing through the name, eyes scanning through the haze. “Charlie!”
But the only thing that answers is the sirens outside and the sound of wood screaming as it burns. Smoke thickens with it,wrapping around my ribs like a fist—cinching tighter with every inhale.
I reach for my Threads, dig down hard, and for a heartbeat they answer—Air pulses out of me in a jagged burst, causing the smoke near my face to shudder, dragged back just enough to carve a window through the gloom.
Just enough to see Charlie. No breath. No blink.
A vice clamps around my chest. No, no, no. It can’t be too late. It can't be. I have to get to him, to her, get us out.
Something inside me gives—My Threads snapping like pulled wire—and the smoke surges back, swallowing him whole.
I try to throw myself forward, palms smacking the tile, but my legs won’t follow, trembling beneath me as if they belong to someone else.
Shit. I can’t move. My ribs clamped tight, vision tunnelling as every nerve sparks too hot, too fast.
Panic.
Not just any panic. This isthepanic. The sound of fire, it’s too close, too familiar. It thinks. It moves. Like it remembers who I am and it wants to finish what I started.
Sweat slides down my spine, cold, as my fingertips start to tingle, lungs working too hard. I squeeze my eyes shut, but the memory of that night rips through anyway.
I thought I could outrun it—the fear. That if I just kept moving, moved fast enough, I could leave it behind. But it’s still here, crawling up my throat, locking my ribs, dragging me back to the night everything burned. The fire doesn’t just surround me, it owns me. And no matter how hard I try, I can’t forget.
