What the Fire Touches

The room was too quiet.

Vera felt it before anyone spoke—the wrongness of still air, the absence of small sounds that should never disappear. No soft breathing. No faint rustle of sheets. No sleepy murmur of a child dreaming.

Vanessa’s bed was empty.

The covers lay folded, untouched, as if she had never been there at all.

Vera didn’t scream.

Didn’t cry.

Didn’t move.

Her heart slowed instead—dropping into something cold and deliberate.

“She was ...