Two kids huddled in the corner. A boy, maybe eight, shielding a younger girl. Maybe six. Tears cutting tracks through the soot on their faces.
For a split second, just a flash, I saw Emma.
Same terror. Same desperate hope.
Then the moment passed. And I was moving.
"I've got you." Scooped up the girl, handed her to Martinez. "O'Brien, take the boy. Window."
Ladder truck already in position. Kids down, one at a time, into waiting arms. My boots hit the ground just as something crashed inside the house.
The mother grabbed both kids. Sobbing. The father shaking, trying to thank us, words jumbled and desperate.
And the girl, maybe eight, same age Emma would have been, looked at me with huge wet eyes.
"Thank you," she whispered.
I nodded. Couldn't speak.
For the first time in seven years, I didn't see Emma's face over hers.
I just saw a child. Alive. Safe. With her family.
Something shifted in my chest. A weight I'd carried so long I'd forgotten it was there, still present, but lighter. Looser.
Like a fist slowly unclenching.
The guilt wasn't gone. Probably never would be completely. But it wasn't crushing me anymore.
She's helping me heal.
Not by fixing anything. Just by being there. By letting me talk about Emma without trying to make the grief smaller.
That had made room for something else to grow.
I wanted to do this right.
Not work sessions that turned into more. Not falling into bed because the tension became unbearable.
A proper date. Dinner. Romance. The whole thing.
I made a reservation at a restaurant she'd mentioned years ago. Back when we were engaged and thought we had forever.
I remembered the name. Had never forgotten.
Flowers. Not roses, she always said roses were cliché. Sunflowers. She loved them for the way they turned toward light. The unapologetic brightness of them.
I found a florist who could deliver tomorrow. Placed the order.
Then I pulled out my phone.
Tomorrow night. 7pm. Wear something nice.
Should I be worried?
No. Just prepared to be impressed.
Is this a date? Like a real date?
