Alina

Sleep was a cruel thing.

It hovered at the edges of my mind, teasing, whispering promises of peace, but the moment I reached for it, the flames came back.

The fire.

Always the fire.

I saw it every time I closed my eyes — the red light licking the walls, the choking smoke, a voice calling my name through the crackle and roar. And always, before I woke, a pair of hands dragging me through the dark. One burned, one trembling.

But whose were they?

I jolted upright, breathless, the ...