They think I died in that fire.

The papers said it. My wife screamed it. My daughter cried it. 

But I didn't die. 

I changed.

Now I sit in the ashes of what was once home, running fingers over the singed edge of her baby blanket, the one with tiny embroidered stars.

I walk its halls like a king with no crown, a father with no child. I whisper to the rooms. 

I keep them ready. Her bed is still made. Her toys are clean. Her nightlight glows blue.

Because she’ll come back.

She has to.