I always knew there was something wrong with the fire.
It wasn't the way it flickered or danced in the barrel outside the motel. It wasn't even the way the heat bit into the cold night air. It was the way it felt when I stared at it too long—like it knew me. Like it was waiting.
Mom said I was just imagining things. That I was still dreaming too big for a girl living week to week in a one-room place that smelled like wet carpet and burnt coffee. But I couldn't help it. Even when the world pushed me down, I kept looking up.
Dad used to say I had fire in my blood. I guess it made sense—he disappeared during a fire. One day he was there, spinning stories about heroes and warriors, the next, gone. No goodbye, no body, no answers. Just smoke and rumors.
The day he vanished, I stopped believing in happy endings.
We've moved five times since then. Every time I unpack, I wonder if he's out there watching. Wondering if he misses us. If he misses me.
But if he was alive, why would he leave?
I spent most days walking through the city with headphones on, hoodie up, dodging people like they were ghosts. School didn't feel like school—it felt like a cage. Teachers looked through me, students talked at me, not to me.
Except for Mr. Rivas, my art teacher. He said I had potential. Told me my drawings had emotion. Fire. The irony made me laugh.
"You ever think about going to art school?" he asked once. I shrugged.
"I don't really think about the future," I said. "It keeps changing."
That night, I drew again. Not pretty things. Just what I saw in my head: flames, shadows, a girl standing alone in the middle of a burning world. She wasn't crying. She wasn't running. She was just… there. Alive. Untouched by the flames.
I didn't know then I was drawing me.
The next day, a building caught fire three blocks from school. I wasn't supposed to be near it, but curiosity dragged me in like a magnet. Sirens wailed, smoke painted the sky black, and I stood at the edge of the chaos, heart pounding like it knew something I didn't.
I stepped closer.
Something pulled at me—heat, fear, maybe instinct. And for a split second, I swear the flames turned toward me. Like they recognized me. Welcomed me.
That's when I saw the girl trapped inside.
Her eyes met mine through the smoke. And I moved.
Not because I was brave. Not because I knew what to do.
Because the fire didn't scare me.
It called to me.
And I stepped into it.