The Fire That Never Burned Out

The sun had barely risen over Thornridge, but Amara hadn't slept. The cassette tape echoed in her thoughts like a drumbeat, relentless and haunting. Her mother hadn't died in the fire. She had disappeared—intentionally. To escape something. Or someone.

In the manor's library, Amara sifted through a stack of journals she had recovered from the attic—each belonging to her mother. The ink had faded, the pages worn, but the words inside felt like whispers from the grave. She clung to them like lifelines.

"They think I'm naive. But I know what I saw. I know what Eli's father did to that woman. And now he's watching me too."—April 2007.

Amara paused. The entry was dated mere weeks before the reported fire. Her mother had witnessed something—a crime perhaps, or a betrayal too deep to bury. She flipped ahead, desperate for clarity.

"I have to keep Amara safe. I've made arrangements with someone in town—someone I trust. If anything happens to me, she must never come back here."—May 2007.

Yet she had come back. And whatever her mother had tried to hide her from, it was still alive, still watching.

Downstairs, Eli emerged from his study. His eyes were heavy, and a cup of untouched coffee trembled slightly in his hand. He hadn't taken the news well.

"She trusted someone in town," Amara said, holding out the journal. "We need to find out who that was."

Eli took the book, scanned the entry, and nodded slowly. "There were only a few people close to your family then—my father, the housekeeper, and…" His voice faltered. "There was a groundskeeper. Nkem. He left after the fire. Said he couldn't bear the guilt."

"Guilt?" Amara's voice sharpened. "What kind of guilt?"

"He claimed he'd seen your mother running from the flames but was too afraid to speak up."

Amara's heart sank. "And no one questioned him?"

"He vanished. I thought it was grief. But maybe it was fear."

A knock at the manor door interrupted them. Eli moved to answer it, but Amara's instincts flared. "Wait."

She peeked through the curtains. A woman in her late sixties stood there, coat wrapped tight despite the morning warmth. She had sharp, weary eyes and clutched a tin box like it held her soul.

Amara opened the door slowly. The woman looked at her and whispered, "You're her daughter."

"Yes," Amara replied cautiously. "Who are you?"

"I was your mother's midwife. And her friend."

Eli stepped forward, protective. "Why now?"

The woman opened the tin box. Inside were photographs—some scorched at the edges, others pristine. One caught Amara's eye: her mother, younger, terrified, standing beside a man she didn't recognize.

"I kept these because I promised your mother I'd protect her truth if she couldn't. I think it's time you saw what really happened that night."

She handed over a sealed envelope, yellowed with age. On it, in her mother's handwriting, were the words: The fire never burned me. It burned the lies.