I breathed heavily as I watched the house burn down.
At this point, both of my siblings had woken up, not from smelling the remnants of our home, but from hearing my shrill scream piercing through the darkness. They looked at me, terrified, as people ran from the house, shouting "fire" in whatever language they knew how. Thankfully, no one was killed. However, one thought was needling me in the back of my mind.
What ever will I tell Papa?
YOU ARE READING
The Safe House
Historical FictionBefore: 13 year old Margret Surges hates reading, writing, or basically anything that requires her to sit still. She believes in what she can see, and nothing beyond that. After: Nothing is as it seems
