In the bedroom, I pull the old sheets off and grab the new ones I washed last week. They were a little splurge after my last paycheck. I wanted silk, the fancy kind that makes you feel rich just by touching it, but the pricetag laughed in my face. These ones are soft enough, though. Smooth, warm, a tiny luxury in my small world.
The whole room has that cosy cottagecore thing I got hooked on from Pinterest, though on a budget version. The wall behind my bed is painted sage green; the others white, with floating wooden shelves holding secondhand books, small clay pots with wildflowers, and a few chipped picture frames. I took the photos myself: grainy film shots of sunlight through trees, old alleyways, and my mother’s hands holding a mug. There’s a soft brown rug on the floor, the kind that feels like comfort, and a dozen mismatched pillows that take forever to arrange and even longer to throw off when I’m tired.
My bed’s made of solid wood, found at a thrift shop and dragged home by pure stubbornness. It sits perfectly against that green wall beneath the macramé moon I pinned up months ago. Took me hours, and my fingers hurt for days, but I love how it hangs there, a quiet guardian.
I smooth the new sheets, the scent of lavender rising from them until it wraps around me like a sigh. It makes me want to sink down and forget the world. Instead, I start dusting every shelf and the old dresser that wobbles if I touch it wrong. The small closet still smells faintly of the lavender softener too. My clothes are lined up neatly, most barely worn, some still tagged.
When I moved here, I wanted a fresh start, a new hair colour, a few new pieces of clothing, a version of me that wasn’t tired or broken. I bought flowy dresses, sweaters in soft browns and greens, all a little witchy, like a woman who talks to the woods. I have two business suits and a dress, the one I wore for Flynn.
I groan quietly, slapping my forehead. Who am I kidding? I told myself it was for me, that I was an independent woman who didn’t dress for a man. But deep down, I knew exactly what I was doing. That dress was for him. For his eyes.
“Fuck it,” I mutter, grabbing the vacuum. I run it over the rug until every stray hair and crumb disappears. The floor gleams, and I stand there, a little proud. Maybe I’ll finally tackle the desk from hell next.
The living room’s small, but I love it. The kind of cosy that comes from making the most out of what you have. I move the couch carefully, trying not to annoy the neighbours during dinner hour. The TV goes against the far wall, the rug in the centre, and the desk by the window where the light’s softest. It takes ages, moving all my stuff off it, but once it’s clear, I dust every corner and vacuum again.
By the time I’m done, it’s dark outside. The fairy lights along the window glow faintly, little dots of gold against the glass. I find an old chipped mug, brown and green with a tiny leaf design, and fill it with pens and pencils. Beside it, I place a wooden tray with three green tea candles.
When I step back, my heart softens. The space looks… peaceful. Like maybe I’ve finally figured out how to build a life that feels mine.
Everything else—the messy papers, the tangled cables, the half-finished rolls of film—gets shoved into the drawers for another day. For now, it’s perfect.
After the shower I heat up some soup and make a sandwich, because I’m too tired to cook. I edited some of the pics I took today while eating, but I’m fighting to keep my eyes open. The bedroom smells so good, and I just cover myself in the soft blankets and let the scent relax me.
I cough once. Then again. Harder. My chest tightens until it feels like my ribs might crack. I can’t breathe.
Help.
The word scrapes my throat, rough and useless. My eyes sting as I blink into a haze. It’s… cloudy? Am I dreaming?
The air tastes strange, metallic, thick, wrong. I blink again, but the fog doesn’t clear. My head swims, dizzy, like I’ve been underwater too long.
Another cough tears out of me. My lungs burn. I push up from the bed, but the floor tilts, the walls blur, and my knees slam down hard on the rug. Something pops faintly outside the door, like glass shattering.
“Is anyone in here?”
A man’s voice, distant and echoing through the roar.
“Hello?”
He sounds frantic. More glass breaking. The sound doesn’t quite register—it’s as if my ears can’t decide what’s real. My vision flickers between black and red. I press a hand to the floor, trying to stand, but my body doesn’t listen. My mind’s fog. My thoughts crawl.
What’s happening?
My throat moves, dry and raw. “H—here,” I whisper, the word barely leaving me.
Footsteps rush closer. A door creaks. Then a burst of hot air hits my face, and I see it: flames licking the doorway, orange light twisting through the smoke.
“Found her!” he shouts, the voice closer now. A shape appears through the haze, shadow and movement. “You’re safe, miss. Don’t worry.”
Strong arms wrap around me. I want to fight, to ask, but everything feels far away. My head falls against solid fabric, warm, with the faint smell of smoke and sweat. A uniform?
I turn my head, just enough to see through the fog. My living room, what’s left of it, is on fire. The walls I painted, the shelves I built, my photographs curling into black ash. My desk…
“No…” The word is a ghost from my lips.
“Shh. Don’t speak,” he whispers, his voice steady even as the world burns around us.
I can hear boots on the stairs; they are heavy, fast.
