The flames licked at the wooden beams above him, the heat pressing against Rowan’s skin like a suffocating blanket. The air was thick with smoke, acrid and stinging, but he didn’t flinch. He never flinched anymore. Not after everything. His house, the place that had once been his sanctuary, had become a prison—a reminder of everything he had lost. Now, it was crumbling around him, the walls groaning and cracking as they gave way to the fire that raged through the rooms like an angry beast. He sat in the center of it all, his back pressed against the floorboards, his knees drawn up to his chest. The flickering flames illuminated his face, casting shadows across his pale skin, but he was oblivious to the beauty of it. He only saw the destruction. His life had been burning for years—he had simply waited for it to match the inside. His breathing was shallow, labored. His hands trembled as he reached for the lighter beside him, flicking it again and again, watching the tiny flame rise and fall like a heartbeat. It was all he needed. The house would fall, the flames would consume him, and maybe, just maybe, there would be peace. The thought of it—a clean break from everything that had tormented him, from the grief, the memories, the ever-present feeling of suffocating isolation—was the only thing that made sense anymore. The heat began to feel almost comforting now, wrapping him in a false sense of safety. This is what I deserve, he thought. Let it all burn. He closed his eyes, the roar of the flames in his ears, the smoke heavy in his lungs, and the rising desperation to end it all. But then… there was a sound. Barely audible at first—just a creak of the floorboards, a breath caught in the wind. Rowan didn’t react. He didn’t care anymore, didn’t want anyone to care. But then the door cracked open, a silhouette appearing in the doorway. Her eyes found his, wide with terror as she saw him sitting amidst the flames. She didn’t hesitate. She was already moving toward him, her face flushed and streaked with soot.