Of Smoke and Dust 🖋

Prologue

PROLOGUE

It's too late for the girl when they come.

They can see her small form huddled in the second-floor window, leaning against the glass as if it's the only thing keeping her upright. She's blurry and indistinct - it's hard to make her out through all of the smoke, but they can just barely hear her. She's coughing. Her voice is raspy and weak when she calls for help.

It's too late.

They try, of course. Of course they try. They're numb as they lean over a phone, the father typing three numbers with shaking fingers : 9-1-1

Someone is screaming. Not the girl in the window. She can barely breathe.

The girl in the window slides out of view to become the girl on the floor.

Isn't there supposed to be less smoke near the ground? The girl masks her face with her hands, limp as she lays on the scalding wood beneath her. She can't remember. Her throat is raw. There is blood on her fingers from when she attempted to break the glass of the decorative window that doesn't open and doesn't open and didn't open for her.

The door is locked. Flames lick at her face. She curls into a tighter ball and inhales shallowly.

There are tearstains on her cheeks.

You'll be fine you'll be fine you'll be fine.

She isn't fine.

She's tired. So tired. So sick of pounding away in the desperate hope that someone will hear her, save her.

There is a lighter on the ground. A blackened sweatshirt, barely hanging together

No one can see it anymore, she thinks bitterly. The colors are only ashes.

At least she did something right.

Her fingers feel sticky. She heaves another breath.

please please please please please.

She didn't mean it. It was an accident.

She wants to tell Maia. She wants Maia to know.

Maia has to know.

She's scared. She doesn't think she's ever been so scared in her whole life.

She wonders if she'll ever get the chance to be more scared. Then she berates herself in her mind.

The people on the street, they are getting help, she promises herself. Don't think about that. You aren't allowed to think about that.

But her resistance is crumbling. Her vision is flickering. There is so much smoke.

She coughs again. The sound is weak, even to her ears, and it lights a new fire in her lungs.

Breathe. Cough. Breathe. Cough. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

Darkness.

Outside, another girl with dark hair and dark eyes and a purple sweatshirt stares at the burning house in shock. There is no noise. Only three people - mother, father, and daughter - watching flames consume wood and paintings and metal and lives.

As the fire trucks round the corner, the girl screams again. No one hears her over the sirens and the shouts.

They're too late.

Tha-thump. Tha-thump. Tha-

"She's unconscious."

"Her breathing is erratic."

"Can you feel a pulse?"

"Maia, we need to tell you something that's going to be very hard to hear."

The girl stares at them. She clutches her sweatshirt tighter. The sleeves are too long, pooling over her hands and spilling onto her lap.

"It's Leonie."